Athena
by Jasper Blood
Summary: When the orphaned niece of Johann Schmidt discovers the American forces, her unique, serum-induced strength and tesseract-spawned abilites are enlisted to defeat the infamous Red Skull. But when secrets are unfurled, she's torn between justice and family. Read and Review! (Includes cameo appearances from Steve Rogers and Col. Phillips)
1. Prologue: The Making of the Red Skull

**Yo Guys! Jasper Blood here, and ready to rock the world of Captain America! Ugh… that sounded terribly corny, didn't it? Ah well, I'm a corny person. Ok, long story short, I fell in love (literally) with Hugo Weaving's amazing portrayal of the Red Skull in the 2011 Captain America the First Avenger film: that which I purchased and watched yesterday, and have been rewinding and replaying all the scenes with Johann Schmidt in them. So, as you can see, this fic focuses on the Red Skull and the American forces AFTER Captain America in a world where Schmidt did NOT die. Hint, hint; also involves a few OCs of my own creation. This first chapter is an introduction to how Schmidt became the Red Skull.**

**Enjoy and PLEASE REVIEW!**

**Regards,**

**J.B**

Berlin, Germany- 1936

Rain spattered like blood against the leaded windows; a dying fire emitted its last gasp of hot embers in the looming stone hearth and the hollow thud of a book-cover falling shut echoed about the room. Sparsely furnished and yet richly decorated, it held no absolute meaning. Simply that it belonged to a young man with no real significance. His significance laid in the eyes of the Fuhrer, yet his fame or his accomplishments withered away in his great shadow. To the people, he didn't exist. No one was aware of his name, his genius, his desires.

But – tonight, that was to change. He eyed the needle with a sick fascination, licking his lips hungrily as if a vampire preparing to feed. No second thoughts erupted in his mind process as perhaps would be the case with any other human. But to Johann Schmidt, he didn't qualify as any other human. No, he was far from that. Humanity was such a failing race, a weak, greedy, and so inexplicably stupid breed of creatures. They were made to populate the earth and nothing more.

But he was already superior to a race that he considered of the intelligence of ape-men, as intellectually advanced as the fly that buzzed listlessly about the air. The odd-looking blue liquid sloshed about the vial, bubbling and fizzing like a pent-up spirit, longing to be released. He smirked at it; not a trace of fear inhabited his veins and he removed a smoldering cigarette butt from his mouth, allowing a cloud of grey smoke to billow from his lips.

He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling the remains of the musty tobacco smoke, as if taking in some strength from it, and licked his lips once again, allowing that same haughty smirk to grace his mouth. He removed the protective seal from the vial, revealing the sharp tip of the needle, and without so much as a last thought, he plunged the tip into his forearm, the searing sting of the liquid penetrating his bloodstream causing him to shudder with a deep satisfaction. He opened his eyes to watch the vial empty and with a delicate grip, he removed the needle's tip, flexing his arm as delicious strength coursed through his veins at rapid speed. He felt like a God, at long last separated from a race that he so vehemently despised.

Slowly he stood up, easing himself towards the small mahogany chest where a crystal decanter sat, filled with amber liquid. The sudden motion made him feel as if his head were made of stone. _A bit of brandy… _yes. He selected an intricately carved glass and lifted the decanter to pour, but his hands shook violently, sloshing the liquid about. His eyes rolled back almost feverishly, but he adjusted his gaze and attempted to lift the bottle again. It lifted very slightly off the chest, only to shatter against the tiles in moments, his fingers slipping from the glass as if possessed.

He mumbled a swear and reached to pick up the shards of glass. As he bent down, an overwhelming sensation of nausea drifted over him and again his eyes rolled back and the strength poured out of him like the brandy in the decanter. The images below him blurred and convulsed like thousands of serpents, the colors blended together with the lights, the pouring rain, the dying fire, everything lost shape as…

He stumbled once trying to move, but the sensation was too much for him to bear now. His eyes flickered closed and as if his body was in slow-motion, he toppled forth. The world went black.

XXX

Sight slowly filtered into his retinas, the odd sensations disappearing with the blackness. Slowly he rose, his head still heavy, his eyes still somewhat blurred. He stumbled into the powder room, grasping the faucet and turning the cold water, splashing it vigorously against his face. He hung his head over the sink, breathing heavily. For only a moment, a thought flashed before his eyes. _What if the serum hadn't worked? What if it had been a dud? Had that fool Erskine tricked him? Had…_

An odd tingling sensation began in his fingers, rapidly traveling up his arms and into his spine and all over his body. Perhaps it was an aftereffect; the serum was strengthening him little by little… perhaps…

He howled in pain as fire burst in his veins – not just a fiery _pain_. Real, tangible, bright orange flames exploded from his flesh, singing away the hairs and blasting away the skin like it was merely a tissue-paper sheen over his body. The sickening stench of burning flesh bloomed as red spots danced before his irises. He watched as if in some other world as the fire spread up his arms, zigzagging over his chest and climbing up his neck until it spiraled onto his lips and inside him. And he screamed.

As if disconnected from himself, he watched silently as his body became engulfed in flame, and he could hear his howls echo across the walls. And all the while, he could feel the agony, feel his body writhing; begging God for mercy, but no one came. He screamed and wept but no sound escaped his lips. He was doomed to watch his body burn away and be mutilated forever. And before his flaming body, stood a man. Perfectly Arian skin, blond hair and blue eyes. He smiled and walked away; leaving Johann's dying screams in the distance as he departed.

That night, Johann Schmidt became only a name, without meaning, as the body it inhabited, died that night.

That night, he became.

The Red Skull.


	2. Cars of Chrome and Octopus Ornaments

**Very quietly today, I present to you Chapter 2 of Athena. Enjoy Guys and Gals, and PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW! **

**Regards, **

**J.B**

**Introducing OC: Mina Hofstadter, Johann's orphaned niece.**

Berlin, Germany- 1936

She eyed the cracked vinyl upholstery of the car distastefully, ushered roughly into the back seat by a far too eager case-worker whose name she'd long forgotten and didn't particularly wish to recollect. She might have only been of barely ten years, true, but the woman had no right with which to treat her as if a toddler. Silently she likened the well-worn vehicle to her uncle's, imagining the grand all-leather upholstering, the sparkling chrome, flawless and perfectly preserved with the strange looking octopus ornament.

Of course, she mourned mother's death. She was still so young, only thirty-six. But Uncle Johann had smiled at her and dried her tears, that night. He promised he'd send for her when he arrived in Berlin, home from very important business. It had been a month and a half since then, and she'd been tossed from one orphanage to another, each one claiming to be too poor to be capable of supporting her constantly ailing health.

"_Wilhelmina!_" the woman's shrill voice broke the hollow silence. "Pay attention, girl."

"Yes, _Frau._" She mumbled.

"Now, as I was saying. Your uncle is an incredibly accomplished man and therefore an extremely busy man. By the grace of him are you being given a home and – "

"You act as if he doesn't want me." She said quietly.

For a moment the woman glared at her, as if offended by her miniscule interruption.

"I did not ask you to speak, did I?" she shook her head dutifully. "Then continue in your silence. Herr Schmidt has neither time nor patience enough to take you on; he merely thinks he has acquired these capabilities because he refuses to understand your… numerous ailments. Therefore, if you are not on your finest behavior; if you are sent back to the case system, the consequences for you will dire. No orphanage in Berlin is capable of handling your expensive medical care and we've already searched through various foster families. None have any interest in you. Though it would be a tragedy, you too could end up in the workhouses. I believe that – "

"Frau?"

The woman's hawk-eyes bore into her impatiently.

"May I speak?"

She rolled her eyes, sighing heavily. "Go on."

"My uncle will not send me back. Uncle Johann is the most kindest man in the world. He promised he'd come for me after he got home from business. He is home now, isn't he?"

The woman gawked at her; she'd never been able to speak more than a few sentences in her presence.

"Yes, well…" she folded her hands matter-of-factly. "We are here."

XXX

They started up the polished marble steps, the girl in silence, the case-worker chittering like a frightened squirrel. She reached a long finger to the doorbell, swathed in Kidd gloves.

"Now, be silent while we wait and curtsy like you were taught when he arrives."

A sallow-looking young girl dressed in starched grey opened the door silently. She eyed them both curiously, and in turn, Mina stared back at her.

"You must be the case-worker." The girl said quietly. "Come in."

The woman put on a fake smile and pulled Mina in roughly.

"Wait here. Herr Schmidt will be with you shortly." The maid shuffled off into another room.

Mina looked about. She'd never actually been to her Uncle's home. He'd only ever visited her at her family's home in Regensburg. The whitewashed walls were mostly barren, save for a few randomly placed paintings and a Bombay table sitting beside a coatrack, also barren. A narrow view into the living room only divulged that the furniture was mostly imported from Paris. But there was something else. A small, silver-framed photograph lay on the coffee table.

A tall, very lanky man dressed in an ornate black _Schutzstaffel _uniform stood next to a small smiling woman, her delicate hand clasped in his large, gloved one. She bit her lip and salty tears brimmed at the edges of her eyes. Heavy footfalls aroused her from her daze and she looked about. The case-worker glanced down at her.

"Wipe your eyes, child." She said quietly, almost gently, as if for once she understood her sadness. The picture had depicted a much younger version of her uncle, hand-in-hand with her mother, his older sister. The footfalls grew louder now, and she detected them to be the hollow 'clop' of SS-issued jackboots. At the top of the winding staircase, a man appeared. He was no longer dressed in a fancy _Schutzstaffel _uniform, but one she had never seen before in the grand parades that Hitler gave.

Black, with winding red trim and shiny pewter buttons. An intricately carved silver emblem was pinned to the broad lapel of his jacket; an octopus body with a gruesome skull head. He looked the same in most ways; his dark brown hair was combed back; his dark eyebrows severely arched; his piercing eyes still held their penetrating intensity.

But, still, there was something different about him. He seemed bigger than the last time she saw him; his shoulders were broader, his torso, thicker and more muscular. She watched as he descended the stairs, walking in his typical, smooth and languid stride.

"My apologies, madam, for the wait. I was preoccupied with some rather pressing business."

The case-worker merely blinked, as if she had also been stunned by his silent yet somehow captivating entrance.

"Well… it was really no problem, _mein Herr_. I… I needed a few moments to prepare the girl anyhow." She stammered.

The arched eyebrow rose curiously. "The girl?"

"Wilhemina, I mean." She started hurriedly.

He nodded slightly, as if accepting her correction, though with some annoyance. He probed delicately at his jawbone. "Yes."

The woman was silent. "I assume you have papers for me to sign, madam?"

"Uh… _ja, ja_. One moment, please." She hurriedly whipped through her portfolio, thumbing through the folders, hands shaking as she did so. Mina glanced up at her uncle, who was eyeing the woman with some distaste. He lifted his wrist slightly, as if to glance at his watch. For a moment, his eyes locked with hers, and his lip twitched upward, as if to smile at her, but by this time, the case-worker had retrieved the papers and turned his attention to them.

She waited as the woman discussed the final agreement with him, staring quietly at her shoes.

The woman eventually left, patting the young girl's shoulder.

"Remember to curtsy." She hissed under her breath, almost inaudibly. "Good luck."

For a moment, there was no sound save for the door clicking shut and the shuffling of papers as her uncle neatly stacked them. He glanced upward, catching her gaze. He stood up, straightening his jacket. As she locked eyes with his, she awkwardly curtsied, nearly tripping on the hem of her dress. He looked at her for a moment, and from the slight glint in his eyes, she could tell he was trying not to smile. He again massaged his jawbone, as if it were some odd habit. He held out his arms.

"My beautiful girl,"

She smiled and ran to him, feeling his strong arms catch her in his tight embrace. This was the uncle she remembered so fondly.


	3. Rulers and Sabres, Carmen and Codeine

**Two Reviews Really guys, I need your support. Your reviews are my life and oxygen supply! Without them I'll die and there will be no more Athena. *sniffs* Depressing, is it not? Thanks to Blackbird71 for giving me the motivation to write a third chapter!:)**

**Regards,**

**J.B**

**P.S**

**In this chapter, we fast-forward a speck to Mina's older childhood, whilst living with her Uncle. Enjoy!:)**

Berlin, Germany- 1942

The basement. Not really an exciting place, lest you ran in to one of the various- in-sundry booby-traps (which there were, admittedly, quite a few), in which case it could be _very _exciting. And also rather painful. But otherwise, not a whole lot to write home about. That is, if you overlooked the odd amount of anti-tank weaponry, aircraft and factory designs, a few fancy-looking models of some sort of bazooka, and of course, an abundance of odd-looking octopi with skull heads.

Naturally, though, she had figured out the significance of that odd ornament that adorned Uncle's car. Speaking of whom, for once, was home. He spent so much time abroad now, and if ever he was home, he usually spent the time working. Therefore, this was a rather unusual occasion.

She sat at one of the metal worktables, listlessly doodling on a blank pad of paper, allowing Johann's words to wash over her in a blur, few of them penetrating her mind.

"_Wilhelmina_!"

He watched as her eyelids drooped, her pea-sized attention span slowly being absorbed by the sickening amount of hearts and flowers that were eating up the page. He sighed, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and probing at the seams of his mask, maneuvering the synthetic flesh back into place. His gloved fingers coiled around a sharp-edged ruler.

The solid 'thwack' of wood hitting skull echoed across the room.

Vexed, she prodded at the growing lump on her crown. "Was that entirely necessary?" she snapped, her voice raising an octave.

"Yes." He answered simply, snatching the notebook from her hands and removing the scribbled-on piece of paper, tossing it into the broad furnace, the scarlet embers eating up the paper. He gestured for her to stand and retrieved a wide, black record disk from a cardboard case, inserting it delicately onto a rather ancient appearing turntable. He set the needle onto it gingerly. A mezzo-soprano voice began to softly croon, and the famous aria from the opera _Carmen _echoed.

"I thought I was to be working on my fencing technique." She pointed out dryly.

"You are." He selected a saber delicately and held it up, examining it in the harsh fluorescent lighting.

Mina slipped off of the stool she had been sitting upon and selected her own saber, stifling a yawn. She abhorred fencing, but Uncle insisted she be skilled in all manner of self-defense. Needless to say, she rather preferred target-practice. Pulling a trigger was so much more effective than waving a blade around and performing, albeit impressive, but meaningless footwork.

"Dare I ask, why the horrid choice of music?"

He fixed his azure-blue eyes onto hers in a disapproving glare. He sighed and turned back to his sword which he polished with a spare rag. "It is tragic, how uncultured this generation is. Children are no longer educated to appreciate the arts but to worship pin-up posters of glorified new Reichs and Aryan perfection."

She glanced up at him. "I thought you were close to the Fuhrer."

"_Was_." He answered coldly. "Much like the children of this generation, I allowed myself to be overwhelmed and outmatched by the_ Fuhrer's _artificial bravado. But, once released from his power, I soon discovered my own."

He lifted up his sword delicately, stroking it with his thumb. "Enough questions, now. Let us begin your practice."

XXX

Her muscles ached with the tension of holding up the saber for so long, and having to repeatedly pause to fix her stance made the minutes seem like hours and the hours seem like days. And all the while, _Carmen _mocked her in the background, the haughty tone of the singer's voice coupled with Johann's insistent reprimands making her ears itch.

He eyed her carefully, watching her movements. They'd improved significantly from when she had first started – merely a snip of a girl back then, her movements were shaky and weak, her frail body barely able to support the weight of the saber. She'd filled out a little since coming here, her body growing into her natural curves giving her a sleek, refined appearance. Far better than that which formerly resembled a bony twig covered in thin film of pale flesh, bones protruding awkwardly, curling brown hair clinging to a gaunt skull. Actually, it hadn't been too terribly long ago.

XXX

Several Years Earlier…

"She'll need ice-baths on the hour if her fever is to rise. See to it that she only consumes liquids, hot broth and the like. Ah yes, and a dose of Codeine before bed."

The doctor put away the array of glass bottles lining his briefcase and tucked the stethoscope into the side compartment, turning to look at the patient's guardian.

"And if her condition is to worsen?" his voice was gruff and unforgiving, the cold glare set in his azure eyes rather unsettling the small, owlish physician. The man pushed his small spectacles back on his hooked nose.

"I recommend you take her to the emergency room if anything is to change drastically."

"Such as?"

"Yellowing of the skin and eyes, vomiting or coughing of blood, delirium, seizures, anything out of the ordinary among her current symptoms."

"And you are certain she will recover?"

The doctor sighed, cracking his knuckles against his case earnestly. "I am certain of nothing, _Herr_ Schmidt. A girl with such a broad and complex medical history as this child; anything could happen. The child's been through the ringer, but I'm almost certain this will be her worst ultimatum." He made for the door. "I will be on call for the remainder of the evening. Please alert me if she is to take a turn for the worse."

Johann said nothing; he merely probed at the seams of his mask, watching as Sophia, the scullery maid escorted the physician away.

Many a doctor had passed through the doorway of his spacious Berlin home, and they all had said something akin to that. _A girl like her, always ill, always weak, no telling if she'll live_.

The words seemed to haunt him daily. He glanced downward at his watch. He was only mere hours away from his departure to Iceland and here his niece was deathly ill. Although it pained him to watch her suffer, he couldn't help but feel a surge of annoyance. The child was a constant roadblock, always sick, always weak, always breaking bones or spraining ankles. Every form of streptococci, he was almost certain, she had had.

There hadn't been a single business trip where he hadn't be called home halfway into a vital project because no one could say for sure if the girl would make it through the night. And yet she always did.

It wasn't that he didn't have any affection for the child – he adored her charms, the hint of sarcasm and cockishness in her voice, her worldly knowledge. Her personality was the feature that gave her frail, sickly-looking appearance life and color. But the overwhelming amount of care she required was… well… put delicately, her timing could use some minor improvements.

He crossed into the living room, eyeing the crackling fire in the hearth with some disgust.

"_Sophia_!"

His voice echoed sharply across the room, the little maid hurrying in, a silver tea-tray balance precariously in her arms.

"_Ja, Mein Herr_?" her voice barely above a whisper.

"Why is this here?" he answered pointedly, glaring at the fire.

"_Fraulein_ Mina was cold, _Mein Herr_. I started a fire for her so that she might be warmed up. I can put it out if you like."

"See to it that it is done." He strode past the maid, barely acknowledging how she ducked aside in order to escape brushing against his shoulder, the tea-cups clinking together loudly.

He busied himself sorting through a stack of letters, but a small voice interrupted him.

"Why don't you like fires, Uncle?"

He glanced down to where she stood, swathed in heavy bath-robe, her grey-blue eyes sunken in, her cheekbones gaunt and skin pale. Her brown curls were damp, pasted to her forehead.

"Why are you not in bed?" he answered flatly, his eyes once again on the letters.

She rubbed her eyes and opened her mouth to speak, but a loud and raspy cough instead rattled through her throat, causing her body to shudder with each gasp for air. He sighed and knelt down before her, taking her into his arms, his gloved fingers stroking at her tangled curls.

"I could not sleep." She struggled for air as she spoke. Instinctively he pulled her tighter, feeling her little body wriggling against him.

"_Meine liebe_," he started but her whimpering silenced him. He grasped her chin lightly with his thumb and forefinger and gazed into her now tear-filled eyes. She gazed back up at him, and struggled from his grip, burying her head in his chest.

"Please don't go, Uncle!" she moaned. "Please don't leave me all alone!"

For a moment he stared down at her head, a part of him aching to give in to her, to stay and comfort the poor dear. The more influential part nagged at him relentlessly. _Everything you've worked for has been stalled repeatedly for this child. You cannot hold off any longer or else it will be too late._

He sighed and kissed her head. "I'll think about it."


	4. Enigma

**Presenting to you, Chapter 4 of Athena! !And yes, for all you smart-alecks out there, it is a perfectly plausible reason to tack a bazillion exclamation points next to that entrance. I promise for this chapter to truly look into Skull's psych, his inner demons, if you will. And a bit of Zola's meek persona.**

**Please review!**

**Regards,**

**J.B**

**P.S**

** I know I'm skipping around a bit in these early chapters (and bending some film knowledge), but that's solely for the purpose of you guys being able to better get to know the characters personalities and abilities. For your reading ease, please pay attention the location headings **

HYDRA Headquarters

The Alps- 1942

Wagner played softly in the background, the exuberant melody of _The Ride of the Valkyries_. A fitting choice of music, he supposed.

Doctor Zola loomed near the door, a folio of design blueprints resting under his arm. _Herr_ Schmidt would acknowledge his presence when he pleased. He'd seen too many underlings' lives ended simply because they'd barged in rather than awaiting their higher authority's approval.

"Is there something in particular, you need?" his voice was low and grating, the words spoken so suddenly Zola nearly leapt out of his skin. As was his nervous habit, he absently straightened his bowtie and readjusted his specs. He marched toward the broad metal desk stiffly, his breaths fluttering and rapid like a butterfly's beating wings.

"I have the finished blueprints you requested, _Mein Herr_." He said quietly, quickly averting his gaze as the gnarled crimson face of his superior turned from the window to inspect the materials. His eyes darted about like that of the March Hare, teetering on his heels nervously, for indeed he had quite an important date. Silently, he took note of the sparse amount of personal items that lay on the desk. A few granite bookends sculpted to look like griffons, several maps, a few weather-beaten encyclopedias of myth and four cigarette cartons, three of them empty.

But there were a few other items, turned away so as not to be easily viewed by onlookers. But, out of the corner of his eye, he could just catch a glimpse. Two small picture frames stood close together, both containing the same ironically happy face. A young girl, rather gaunt and bony, shone from the first one, her eyes a dull blue-grey, like dark linens losing their color from repeated washing. And yet, she had a bright, big smile on her face, full of young teeth. The second showed an older version of the girl, with a plumper, smoother face and full red lips. Satiny brown curls draped elegantly against her shoulders and porcelain-white teeth just peaked out from a demure almost amused smile. But there was something about this older version, something almost ethereal.

Her face was more delicate than that of a china doll's, and yet, there was a certain element of ferociousness and spunk in those washed-out eyes, something that lured you in so far you nearly lost your bearings. Something dark and mysterious, something that made you question her obvious fragility.

But, there was something else, something far more intriguing to the eye. A small, partially torn photograph lay meaninglessly on the desk, as if some piece of trash meant to be discarded but its owner had forgotten to dispose of it. A faded picture, charred in some places of a beautiful young woman, almost extraordinarily different from the one in the other photograph. Her skin was whiter than freshly fallen snow, and hair the color of flames pooled around the nape of her neck, the rest of it pulled into a loose chignon. Eyes so vibrant and full of life, like lush spring meadows, reminiscent of sunshine. Her chin and cheekbones were sharply chiseled, unlike the other girl's softer edges, and it was obvious she was older.

In the picture, she was laughing, her eyes creased at the corners, her hand up by her mouth, as if stifling her mirth, and failing. A silver chain hung around her swan-like neck, a beautiful pendant of rubies and diamonds. But it was so ironic it sent chills down his spine. As he looked closer, he saw that the pendant itself was not merely a random symbol. It was an octopus, the ruby-encrusted legs swirling mystically. Diamonds glinted off the Skull face.

"_Doctor Zola_," jarred from his daze, Zola jerked up, his eyes wide.

"Were you dreaming, Arnim?"

"N – _Nein, _I – I was merely contemplating." He shifted from foot to foot uncertainly.

"Contemplating what?"

The eerily dark, concentrated blue color of his eyes drilled into Zola like individual screwdrivers being driven into his brain. The man had such an uncanny knack of reading expressions and even slight movements – Zola was almost afraid to think at all before the man, much less make eye contact with him. He had a difficult enough time focusing on the synthetic mask, but his true appearance – the image unsettled him to the point of many a sleepless night, the face staring him down eternally, for it was as if it was imprinted onto the undersides of his eyelids.

"Our – our progress, _Mein Herr_." He stammered. "To think of how your brilliant mind will benefit our government; why, on the wings of your sheer ingenuity will our empire soar."

The slightest hint of a smirk graced The Red Skull's lips.

"You are too modest, Zola. Surely you've taken upon yourself, some credit."

"This entire organization is _your_ brainchild, _Herr _Schmidt, born from your creativity, your long hours of planning, your laboring and precision. The _Fuhrer_ does not pay you enough of the credit."

Again, a slight twitch of the lips.

"The Fuhrer does not pay me_ any_ credit, Dr. Zola." He answered softly, almost humorously. He strode past the small weapons designer, toward one of the various worktables in the office, littered with unfinished drafts. "Though, the vision is nice enough."

He turned to glance back at him. "We depart for Tønsberg at exactly 0500 hours. I suggest you prepare whatever necessities you plan to bring."

Zola nodded slightly and left, knowing it better than to continue the conversation. Something was troubling Schmidt. The man portrayed himself as modest and unworthy of the credit he deserved. But Zola knew this to be a foil. Johann Schmidt did not simply adore being 'thrown a bone'. No, he didn't care for anyone else's admiration or recognition. He didn't simply want people to tell him he was brilliant; he wanted people to think it and know it and live it. He wanted the Third Reich to put him up on a pedestal, to worship him like a God.

Only, Zola didn't know that it wasn't the Third Reich that concerned Johann Schmidt. The only thing that concerned Johann Schmidt, was the world.

XXX

Berlin, Germany- 1936

He watched her thrash about wildly, a sheen of sweat glistening off her skin, her nightgown drenched with perspiration. Her skin was hot with fever and yet she shivered violently. Tears streamed down her ashen cheeks, her eyes shut tightly, her ragged cries mournful and heart-wrenching. It tore him apart, watching her suffer._ Almost the way he had._ His fingers curled around the familiar touch of the glass syringe, but he no longer held it with that stiff confidence, that reassuring arrogance. Now, his fingers trembled, his heart pounded within his chest and all of that haughty cockishness had disappeared.

He gazed at the slight droplet of blue liquid that clung to the glass. He'd only just managed to get his hands on the last flask of Erskine's formula, before he left the country. Now, it no longer held its deep intrigue, its lust-inducing hypnotism. No, now all it was capable of inducing was fear. The slightest glance at it sent shivers through his spine and unwanted flashbacks of bright glowing flames.

He didn't want to do it. What if it turned out for her the way it had for him? He shuddered at the thought of her beautiful face being destroyed and being replaced by…

He dared not think about it. It was either this, or death. He knew it in his heart. No medicine could spare this child, no amount of drugs or cough syrups could give her life. If she was lucky, she'd overcome this illness, but only to be plagued by another. She had been born so early, it was a miracle she'd lived at all. And now, her immune system was too weak to defend her.

The serum. It could give her life, could give her the strength to live and do and be anything she wanted, anything she'd ever dreamt of. And when the world was his, she'd be his princess, the crown jewel of his empire. A Goddess.

The image was so beautiful, so surreal and yet so tangible he could almost reach out and touch it. And with that single vision, he closed his eyes and took her frail, hot arm into his hand, stroking it gently with all the affection and softness he could conjure. He looked at her once last time, and down at the small, almost meaningless droplet that bubbled and fizzed within the syringe. So small an amount, and yet it could change everything about a soul.

"Wilhelmina, _meine juwel_, I do this for you, and no one else."

And he plunged the needle deep into her flesh.

XXX

Tønsberg, Norway- 1942

Excavating the Ancient Burial Vaults

The crumbling stone walls of the catacombs brought up plumes of thick, dead dust and the stench of long-decayed bodies with each explosion. Zola stood wringing his hands, a handkerchief pressed to his nose, the lenses of his specs caked with dust. His small, rather plump body convulsed with a loud sneeze. More than a thousand years' worth of dirt and grime clearly was wreaking havoc upon his allergies. Beside him, Schmidt towered over the little weapons designer, a large map cradled delicately in his gloved hands. He cast a cursory glance down at his assistant, who rubbed furiously at his eyes, attempting and failing to rid them of dirt.

"You do not prefer archaeology, Dr. Zola?"

"I do not prefer _dust_." The man sneezed again. "Herr Schmidt, we've been searching for hours. Surely it cannot be here."

"Don't be cynical, Arnim. You will never know whether something is truly there or not unless you thoroughly investigate the premises."

"And?" he inquired irritably. Schmidt smirked slightly.

"And, that is what we are doing, doctor."

Zola scowled but kept quiet.

A leather-clad HYDRA soldier marched up to them, the glossy black material of his uniform covered in a thin film of dust.

"We have searched every inch of this place, Herr Schmidt. There is no trace of the tesseract. Merely crumbling burial offerings." He held up a shard of pottery. "I doubt those will be of any use to you, sir."

"Do not be so sure." Schmidt folded up the map and tucked it into the pocket of his long, leather trench-coat. Delicately he retrieved the shard. "These are not merely burial offerings; they are artifacts. If they are of no use in our search for the tesseract, they will be excellent additions for my collection. See to it that you collect several specimens."

The soldier bowed his head. "_Jawohl, mein Herr._"

Zola glanced up at his superior, taking note of the fierce glow in his eyes. It wasn't a look of insanity, no. Schmidt was odd in that way.

He was so much more than met the eye; he was an enigma, a well-structured wall built up around him. People saw of him only what he wished for them to see, and nothing more. He wondered if the man had anything of a personal life. Vaguely, he recollected the picture of the young girl. Did she have any significance, or was she merely a distant relative? And what of the redheaded woman? Surely her exquisite beauty wasn't being wasted in a photograph.

"Dr. Zola!"

His head jerked up. "Wa – yes sir?"

Schmidt rolled his eyes with some irritation. "Please, Arnim, focus."

Zola rubbed his eyes as if awaking from a dream. "My apologies sir. I was merely – "

"Contemplating, yes I am aware." He cracked his jaw and probed at the edges of his mask, pushing them back into place. "You do seem to have a habit of doing so."

XXX

One by one, the soldiers began to clear out, the convoy of trucks revving up as the sun began to rise and the chill Scandinavian air bristled in the wind. Schmidt lounged patiently in his car, half-heartedly examining the expensive leather-upholstering for any discrepancies, as was habit for him. He had managed to keep the vehicle in pristine condition ever since it had been custom designed for him.

But that was back in the old days, when he had been one of Hitler's closest confidants. The Fuhrer had showered him with rewards for his laboring- a top-notch research facility, fully equipped with weaponry, armed vehicles, and a small army of well-trained scientists and combatants. More personal gifts being the car, an intricately designed uniform, and a salary rivaling that of the propaganda prime-minister. Easily enough to purchase a lavish mansion in Berlin, fully staffed with servants.

Until, of course, he'd been replaced. He scowled bitterly. The Fuhrer was a damn fool to believe that allowing Schmidt to keep his gifts was enough to make up for the humiliation and defilement he would suffer because of it.

He turned the car to neutral, watching the soldiers load the last of the stolen artifacts into the trucks. He lit up a cigarette, inhaling deeply. Though he'd lost much in these last years, he didn't deny that he allowed himself… small indulgences. Expensive cigarettes, a collection of the finest available liquors, coffee imported from Columbia, ornate furnishing and paintings shipped from Paris, several vases from Japan and Thailand. He glanced down at the small, ivory-colored box in the passenger's seat.

A ruby and diamond choker for Wilhelmina. Perhaps a bit too lavish for a sixteen-year-old, but it would certainly look exquisite against her ivory throat at the Valkyrie Ball. Not that he had any interest in going to a Nazi sponsored event, but he was obligated, for the Fuhrer still believed him to be a staunch supporter of his cause. And he was also somewhat obligated to bring a date.

He sighed inwardly. Naturally if he so much as mentioned the prospect of a party, his niece would be at his heels begging for him to let her come with him. Apparently she valued any chance to 'improve her lackluster social life', and a party for the Fuhrer was the perfect opportunity.

A soldier crossed toward the car, saluting stiffly as he came before his superior.

"We are ready to depart, Herr Schmidt."

The car engine roared to life. "Not quite, Corporal."

"Pardon, sir?"

"The artifacts and myself will depart. The weaponry division is to remain for perhaps a few moments longer."

The officer wore a look of confusion, but soon realized what his superior meant, and allowed his lips to twitch slightly upward.

"Shall I give the order to open fire, _Mein Herr_?"

Schmidt wore a somewhat devious half-smile. "I suppose it is a weakness of mine," he confessed, "my obvious flare for dramatics. But, alas, I will ensure that the Norwegians are more than aware of my presence."

The soldier bowed his head, but a smirk graced his lips. He brought both of his arms up toward the sky stiffly, barking, "Hail Hydra!" and scurried off to attend to his order.

Schmidt waited; within moments of the order being given, explosions could be heard in the distance, the helpless cries of villagers. He cracked his jaw and probed at the seams of his mask, rather nonchalantly.

He took one last look at the village, smiling slightly. "A pity that Tønsberg was of no assistance to my quest." He glanced back at Dr. Zola, who sat quietly in the back with his head down and his hat purposefully pulled down over his ears, as if to avoid the noise of the destruction. "But never mind that. Soon, the world will know of my name, not just a miniscule village. The destruction here will only serve as a prophecy of what is to come in the near future."


	5. How Deceptive, that thing called Love

**Presenting Chapter 5 of Athena! Now go and read and REVIEW! My fans of fiction! Special thanks to Kukapetal for putting up with my non-stop Private Messaging and the touching review!**

**Regards,**

**J.B**

Valkyrie Ball

Berlin, Germany- 1942

Too-bright lights, too-loud music. Too much noise and too many people crammed into one space, the scent of smoke and perfume drowning the air, making it near impossible to catch a pure breath of air.

He longed for the quiet solitude of his laboratory in the Alps, only the sound of the wailing winds and the soft chords of Shubert or Brahms with a full pack of cigarettes and a glass or two of fine schnapps. He sighed, keeping a watchful eye on his niece, whom at present, fraternized with the enemy. Sons of Gestapo officers.

Bedecked in a black satin dress, lined with several layers of crinoline petticoats billowed out beneath the sleek waist, the black tulle overlay over the bodice trimmed with beading, the sheer fabric covering her shoulders, but allowing their porcelain-white color to peak through. She was beautiful, truly. Although, she served as a painful reminder.

His heart wrenched in his chest, as images of a beautiful red-haired woman flashed before his eyes, and he could almost feel the light brush of her lips against his skin. He bristled at the thought, biting down on his lip, swallowing his pent-up feelings of remorse.

_Imbecile, _he thought bitterly. _You are mere months away from proving that bastard Hitler who is superior and yet here you are acting like a sniveling child, heartbroken over puppy-love!_

But still, the image, for some reason, would not leave his mind. _Her long, beautiful titian hair, like silk, pulled up onto her head in an elegant knot, a flowing cobalt dress, just barely revealing her ivory skin, her slender shoulders. The back was low, and his gloved hand rested against the small of her back, her smiling face looking up at his. _He could hear laughter somewhere far off in his mind. It was hers. He remembered kissing her, whispering romantic vows into her ear, professing his passionate affection for her. She merely giggled, like a little girl, and whispered back, as if the two of them were school children spreading rumors in a schoolyard.

And suddenly, the image clouded over, blackening like a storm overtaking the sun. _He stood outside the hotel suite, his head rested against its number-plate, his gloved hands massaging his temples. _There was no mask to adjust, then. His flesh was real and unmarred. _He rapped against the door with his fist, mumbling curses beneath his breath. _

_ "Victoria, darling, come out, please. Now." He growled, unintentionally. He couldn't help it. He'd been rejected all his life, and when finally he'd gained power… well, it was of some consequence that he'd allowed himself to grow accustomed to the royal treatment. He rapped again, blowing a cloud of smoke, flicking the ashes off the tip of his cigarette absent-mindedly. He combed his free hand through his dark brown hair; he ran his tongue along his teeth, his blood pounding in his veins with something akin to fury. _

They had fought the night before. A shame really, for he couldn't help but savor the memory. He'd held her in his arms tightly, trailed kisses along her neck, worked his way up to her lips before pulling her closer. But then, he whispered something to her, something simple, merely a four word inquiry. And she'd broken away, as if his grip on her were like fire. Tears had begun to stream down her face, and she fell to her knees, whimpering liked a hurt child.

"_I can't_," she had moaned, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. "_I can't._"

And with those words, even though his heart wrenched with pity, even though he wanted to fall down onto his knees beside her, to dry her tears, to plead with her… he just couldn't.

No pity welled up in his eyes, no soft, soothing words could escape his lips. Only anger and hate and vengeance.

Vengeance for every individual in the world that had said no to him, that had denied him what was rightfully his. He was Johann Schmidt, the finest Shutzstaffel officer in the whole of the German secret service. He had power, wealth, an army of loyal followers who tended to his every whim.

And yet, here some defiant sobbing snip of girl had denied him that which would complete his euphoric state of life, that which would make him truly whole and fulfilled.

And she had taken that sense of completion, accomplishment… away from him.

He had slapped her. Hard enough that a single drop of blood trickled down the corner of her mouth and down her chin, staining the material of her gown. The expression of shock that spread across her face, the strained whimper that escaped her lips.

And without a word, he had stormed out, leaving the wretch to sob. He heard her screams as he walked away, and he allowed a shuddering sigh to course through his body, a feeling of satisfaction surging through his blood, that haughty feeling of power, like a drug that he craved ravenously.

And yet, somewhere deep within him, he felt something. Akin to guilt, perhaps, but still. She deserved to suffer, to suffer the way he had his entire life.

_At long last, the door opened, barely, allowing only a slight view of her face. She looked as if she'd gone on holiday in Hell. Her red hair was tangled and matted, hanging from her skull limply. Her vibrant green eyes seemed to have dulled in color and her rosy-pink lips were near-blue now, in hue._

_ He smiled at her, almost mockingly. "You look unwell, my love. Are you ill?" he reached out a gloved hand to stroke her face but she pulled away. He bit his lip, swallowing his sudden irritation. "Please darling, don't let last night's little dispute cloud your judgment." He reached out again, grabbing her face in his hands before she could pull away, pressing his lips against hers almost violently, grasping her tightly until she refrained from struggling. He smiled, breathing into her neck. When he spoke, his lips brushed against her neck, and he felt her shudder, the slight movement sending chills of satisfaction down his spine._

_ "I'd really rather forget last night, you know. Start fresh, begin anew. Everyone has a falling-out every once in a while. But, we mustn't let that overshadow our… stronger emotions." He pressed his lips against her neck, her skin like silk beneath his mouth._

_ "Johann," she whispered._

_ "Yes, darling?"_

_ "We can't start fresh."_

_ "What do you mean?" he looked at her now, eyeing her levelly._

_ "I'm leaving Berlin."_

_ "I'll come with you."_

_ "You can't."_

_ "Why is that?"_

_ "I'm going back to America, Johann. I can't see you anymore."_

_He stopped suddenly, his lips pausing just beneath her own. He pulled back slowly, his hands still fixed around her waist. He dropped them to his sides. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound could escape. Her eyes filled with tears, and she lowered her head._

_ "I'm sorry." And the door closed._

XXX

_He sat at his desk listlessly, several photographs spread out over the length of the desk. And all of the same person. When he spoke, his voice cracked slightly._

_ "You are sure it is her?"_

_The masked guards stared back at him with glassy eyes. "Yes, Herr Schmidt." One of them spoke up. "Her presence in Berlin has been confirmed."_

_ "She lied to me." He said quietly, almost to himself. He lifted one of the pictures up, holding it in the light. "She betrayed me." He looked back at his men. "And you are sure that she is working for American intelligence?"_

_ "Yes sir."_

_In that single moment, he felt as if all the breath had been sucked out of him, as if the life had been drained away. _

_All his life, he'd only ever been said no to. And then, Hitler came along, brought him up out of the filth, had given him everything. And then shattered everything._

_But he had built himself back up, gained more power and control than he had ever dreamt of._

_And then, she came. So beautiful and funny and smart, such a special, wonderful woman._

_And when he was on the verge of being complete, of being fulfilled, she'd brought his hopes clattering down to the earth, brought his superiority down into the dust, making him just as mundane and regular as anyone else._

_He had made countless vows to her, had pledged his love for her always, had showered her in gifts. He had always been good to her._

_And she had betrayed him._

_She had ruined him._

_ He looked stood up and turned to look through the broad glass panels of the panoramic window, staring out into the snowy alps, losing himself in their endless white._

_ "Leave." He murmured, and waited for the sound of the door clanging shut._

_He looked about, making sure that he was entirely alone. _

_And when he sure that he was completely secluded…_

_He fell to his knees, and wept._

Present Day, 1941

He leaned against the broad marble pillars of the veranda, finishing off the last bit of his cigarette before extinguishing it with the toe of his jackboot. As he was prone when in a fidgety manner, he cracked his jaw and probed at his mask, flexing his gloved fingers as if they were murder tools, preparing to be put in use again.

He sighed, his left eye twitching with irritation and he bit his lip, as if the pain of that would somehow silence his overly-chatty conscience. A part of him nagged at him to pull out the picture again, to gaze at it, to reminisce. The more influential side of him was snickering away, savoring each and every moment that his weakness was visible.

After a few moments, he swore at himself silently and succumbed to the less influential side, as he had been craving to do for hours now. He reached into the breast pocket of his uniform – the newly dry-cleaned SS issued one – God forbid he show up to Hitler's party in Hydra regalia – that would be utterly rude – and retrieved the somewhat crumpled photograph.

_Victoria._

A brilliant scientist, a beautiful dame, and the only lover he'd ever had in his life.

But of what use was she to him now? She'd crushed his hopes, denying his proposal, throwing everything he'd ever done to please her in his face, and then, as if to add insult to injury, she had been revealed to be working for the American intelligence services all along.

She'd used him and deceived him and thrown it all back into his face.

All to get at the Nazis.

Yes, those damned fools in the American military had considered him a weak link in Hitler's cult; a power-hungry fool that secretly longed for human-contact, and moreover, someone like him. A scientist, someone with brains, someone who shared his passion.

And she had summed up all of those cravings, she was anything and everything he could ever ask for.

He stared down at the photograph, reminiscing over all the times he'd tried to burn it, and then fetched it out of the flames moments before it was engulfed, unable to watch it turn to cinders.

He felt his heart lurch again; whether with anger or sadness, he could not determine.

"Perhaps the Americans were right," he murmured. "But that was then. They might have underestimated my defenses then, but I can swear to them, I am no longer so weak, so vulnerable. And I will come back at them with force. They won't even be able to comprehend what hit them."

He lit up another cigarette, tucking the photo back into his jacket. "Goddamn their souls, they won't see it coming."


	6. The Boys from the Men

**Presenting Chapter Six of Athena! I promise for things to get interesting here, so this may be a long one – and if not… well… does length really matter? I suppose so… **

**But, anywho, thanks to Blackbird71 and Kukapetal for the reviews and thanks to all you readers for positively blowing up my traffic stats- you guys are beating out my top story:) So, thanks for the reads, and if you see something you like, please, don't hesitate to REVIEW **

**Regards and Enjoy,**

**J.B**

**We switch gears a little bit in this story- yes, I know, I'm totally molding a ton of stuff into a year, but it needs to be this way to work out. The timeline's annoying the crap out of me – hope none of y'all are sticklers about sticking to the exact film facts. But of course you wouldn't be… cause this is fanfic Also, take note, I've changed the years in the former chapters. They no longer take place in 1941, but 1942.**

Berlin, Germany- 1942

Rain clattered against the windows, the Hydra flags attached to the hood snapping in the harsh wind like gnashing serpents. In the closed-off backseat, he couldn't help but fidget, folding and unfolding his hands, fussing with his uniform, uncertain whether or not to cross his legs or keep them uncrossed. It was as if something was itching terribly beneath his skin, and he was unable to claw at it.

He longed desperately for the feeling of the steering wheel beneath his fingertips, the glistening chrome shell, the adoringly loud thrum of the engines of his own car. But alas, naturally the Fuhrer would stress that he be chauffeured to the Reichstag. Lest he want to be assassinated or some other wildly out-of-proportion web that Hitler's obsessive paranoia had woven.

Zola watched his superior with a growing sense of worry. The man was fidgeting like a child waiting for the schoolmaster to decide his punishment. He lowered his eyes to the floor.

"Herr Schmidt,"

He watched as the azure orbs cast a cursory glance his way, an irritated glint to them that sent shivers down the little scientist's spine.

"_Ja,_ Dr. Zola?" he answered roughly, his red-rimmed eyes closed for a moment.

"I – I don't mean to pry, _Mein Herr_, but –"

"If you do not mean to pry, Dr. Zola, why would you bother asking, since you have now made it obvious that you intend to _pry_?"

For a moment, Zola was merely taken aback. He pushed his specs back nervously and instinctively lowered his head, as if meaning to redeem himself. He heard Schmidt sigh quietly.

"Go on." He answered simply, removing a packed of cigarettes from his breast pocket.

"Well I – I merely deduced that you were unsettled by something, sir."

At this, Johann let out a hoarse laugh, nearly causing Zola to leap out of his seat.

Grinning slyly, he replied, "I have not been _unsettled_ by anything since I joined the _Schutzstaffel_, Dr. Zola."

Zola choked a laugh, his eyes darting about nervously. The almost amused tone of his superior greatly unsettled _him_, though any real show of emotion from Schmidt was enough to put him into shock.

So rarely did the man ever speak above a monotone, or so it seemed. Nothing could cause the voice to quaver; not a dead man or a piano-wire noose. He laughed at the face of death.

Zola shuddered beneath his heavy coat. For God's sake, the man _was_ the face of death.

"We have arrived, Dr. Zola." His voice rang in his ears.

"Ah – so we have."

XXX

The room he was ushered into – or rather, the network of rooms, divided by rather useless partitions, made him scowl distastefully. Rows of metal desks, banged up and dented in places loomed in the center of the room, the cinder-block walls of the bunker-like structure filthy and cold. Dusty light bulbs hung from a web of electrical cords strung across the beams in the ceiling, their light giving off a faint glow. A young officer, no more than at most, twenty-five, dressed in civilian SS attire, sat down at one of the metal desks and ushered for Schmidt to sit opposite him.

"Please sit down, Herr Schmidt. We've much to discuss." The man said quietly, amiably, although he could detect that sort of boyish cockishness that he had once possessed. Johann eyed the cracked upholstering of the chair, his nose wrinkling with disgust. Vaguely, he remembered how grand his office had been, when he had headed up SS espionage and sabotage. A large ebony desk from Egypt, fine draperies imported from Paris and a library that rivaled even the most seasoned collectors. A far cry from this drafty basement.

"I do hope you'll excuse the condition our office-space is in." the man said, as if reading his mind. He fought off a twinge of annoyance at being so easily perceived and sat down, almost thankful for the thick leather material of his coat, keeping his expensive uniform clean.

"Typical of Hitler to hold a meeting in an underground hellhole with little to no communication, resources, or technology." He retorted. "How silly of me to expect state-of-the-art facilities. And here I thought the SS was the _pinnacle_ of _sophistication_."

The officer's expression darkened considerably, his thin lips twisting into an indignant scowl.

"Yes well," he started curtly, "We do what we can in the circumstances."

"Naturally." He almost smiled as he said it, causing the man's scowl to deepen.

"You do realize there is a war going on, don't you Herr Schmidt? Do you not take into account that not all of us can afford to lounge about in lavish facilities all over the country, with only the_ top_ technology and the _top_ scientists to tend to our every whim? Some of us actually have to work for our victories." He said curtly, his glassy-blue eyes narrowed.

Johann chuckled quietly whilst retrieving a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. As he lit one, he replied smartly, "Hmm, interesting that. The _Shutzstaffel_ has always been so well funded – and, here, almost all of my organization's activities are funded by myself, with only minimal government financing.

"But, perhaps I've simply been absent too long. Or the _F__ü__hrer_ is simply a cheap bastard." The last words were muttered under his breath. He blew a cloud of smoke into the air, his cigarette held loosely in his gloved hand. He took great care in giving off a pompous aura before the young officer; if the Fuhrer was going to continuously poke his nose into _his_ business, he had every intention of giving his rat-bastards of officers a piece of his mind.

The officer eyed him levelly, and he could tell from the way his jaw moved slowly from side to side that he was grating his teeth, as if only that could keep him from lashing out. Johann smiled slightly; the boy was to be commended for at least knowing when to keep his mouth shut.

"But, I assume you have summoned me here for some other matter than to discuss the Reich's financial state."

"Indeed. The _F__ü__hrer _requests a detailed progress-report on your weapons industry. Hydra has been in production for over five years and only the most mundane weapons have been produced. You promised us highly technological devices, Herr Schmidt. Anyone can make a rifle. The only reason the _F__ü__hrer _has not sacked you completely is because he still believes that your understanding of scientifically-enhanced weaponry surpasses all others. The rest of us, unfortunately for you, are no longer so confident in your abilities."

"Ah, such an assurance, that I have such _supportive_ subordinates."

The officer sat back in his chair. "I have no need for your sarcasm, Herr Schmidt. I have much more pressing matters to be taking care of at present and you are the least of my worries."

"Then why do you bother with me at all?"

"Because I am a military man, and I follow orders."

Johann stood up and straightened his jacket, placing his hat delicately onto his head. He eyed the man levelly. "You are a boy, with visions of triumph and glory. And, you would do well to accept the fact that those visions are merely propaganda, devices created to corrupt and corrode you until you are little more than a wind-up toy reserved for the_ F__ü__hrer's_ amusement. I might not keep close watch on the SS' activities, acquiesce to their actions, but I possess far more intelligence on the matter than you could ever perceive. And I can promise you, you will not last long in their world."

He turned to leave, but the officer's voice called out.

"Herr Schmidt,"

Johann bit his lip, his eye twitching with fierce irritation. He turned to glare at the man.

The young officer smiled. "I expect that report in by Monday."

XXX

His office in Berlin was no less lavish than his expansive laboratory in the Alps. A roaring fire crackled in the huge marble hearth, oil paintings and tapestries depicting Norse gods such as Thor and Odin decorating nearly every inch of the damask-papered walls. Heavy velvet curtains blocked out the glaring headlights of passing cars, and the strains of Mozart echoed from the old phonograph.

A peaceful evening, alone to study his books, the thought of work pushed out of his mind for a little while. Just a leisurely Friday evening, in the solitary quiet of his home. Mina had vacated to her room, a blessing to him. He enjoyed her company, but the girl asked too many questions, and prattled on far too excessively for his liking. He almost smiled. Quite the charismatic chatterbox. He pondered taking her riding in the morning, and perhaps lunch at one of the cafes. Or maybe a play, or an opera.

Perhaps a weekend to do nothing but dabble in leisure activities would do him some good.

The soft padding of slippered feet sounded quietly from the hall, and wet, brunette head popped into the doorway, her blue eyes peering out innocently from beneath a damp mess or curls. He cast a cursory glance at her, taking note at how adorably childish she looked, as if she were still that innocent and naive little girl, with silly little notions filling her head. At the age of sixteen now, he couldn't afford to say such things aloud.

She'd only be terribly insulted and then grow sour, storming off making fiery proclamations of how she absolutely _abhorred_ him and how she wished so fervently to have someone else for an uncle.

Apparently tonight though, she wasn't sour-pussed, for the slight inclination of his head had somehow granted her permission to enter, and now her head rest against his shoulder and she stared at her slippers silently.

"_Was ist es, meine schatz?"_

"Nothing."

"Then why ever are you pestering me, as such?"

She raised her head and rolled her eyes, preparing to stalk off, but he grasped her arm lightly. He gazed up into her eyes for a moment, taking note of their soft azure tones.

"Don't be so bitter." He said quietly. "It hardly becomes you."

She crossed her arms. "So if I don't roll my eyes or pout, I will suddenly become pretty?"

He chuckled softly. "There is so much more too beauty than simply looks, my love. Clearly I haven't taken you to enough art museums."

In response, she childishly stuck her tongue out. He sighed and shook his head.

"Oh it's such a shame your mother didn't culture you."

She couldn't help but smile as she threw herself down into one of the large wing-backed chairs, tucking her wet curls back behind her ears.

"Marta invited me to go shopping tomorrow." She said, half to herself. "I was thinking about going."

By now, his eyes had lowered, immersing themselves in an old Norse Mythology Encyclopedia, busying himself with research. "Oh?" he answered almost tonelessly. "Pity. I was going to take you riding."

She perked up at this, and he allowed himself a small smirk. He stood up and headed for the entry. "Or perhaps an opera, but I suppose that would be too boring for you."

"Only staring at Rembrandt bores me, Uncle. You know my taste for my music."

He smiled slightly and crossed into the entry, running a gloved hand through his dark hair, slicked back with Vitalis.

"True." He glanced at his watch. Nearly eleven. "Wilhelmina,"

"Yes,"

"Is it not well past your bedtime?"

She sighed exasperatedly, rolling her eyes. She opened her mouth to reply but he cut off her with a wave of his hand.

"You are not eighteen yet, my little _adult_. Savor your childhood while you can, you'll find my world is much harsher than yours."

She sighed and moved to walk past him, but he wrapped his arms around her upper half, pulling her towards him into a bear hug before allowing her to quietly vacate to her room.

She was only halfway up there stairs when the metallic ring of the telephone echoed.

Johann sighed and took the call, slightly irritated, as he'd expressly ordered his men not to disturb him. Or was it simply that haughty Gestapo officer asking for his report.

"Schmidt." He answered dryly, pouring himself a glass of schnapps from the crystal decanter. "Update? Of what kind? We have already excavated every cathedral in Tønsberg, Zola. How could it possibly have _popped_ up?"

Silently, Mina poised herself before the banister on the upper floor, straining to hear the conversation. Uncle never spoke a word of his organization's work, despite the fact that nearly every inch of practically everything he owned was adorned with the odd octopus emblem.

"Dr. Zola, we have exhausted every possibility. Is it not obvious that what we seek does not lie in Norway?"

A moment of silence. "What do you mean by… it is not in the cathedral? Nonsense Arnim, we've scoured every inch of the catacombs as well. There is no burial ground in Norway that my men have not inspected."

More silence. She heard him sigh. "Only because I am hanging on the last thread of my patience, will I cease my hiatus, Zola. But for your sake, you had better have something to show me when I arrive. Believe me when I tell you good doctor, I will not hesitate to put a bullet into your brain when your usefulness has run its course."

A click sounded as he hung up the phone, sighing heavily. She bit her lip and stood up, unable to keep silent.

"Uncle," she called down. His azure eyes looked up at her tiredly. "Where are you going?"

He sighed. "I have been called back to Norway. I will be leaving in roughly a half hour's time, as I expect the train ride to be more than several hours." He reached for his heavy leather coat, pulling it on and lightly placing his cap onto his dark hair.

"But, you've hardly been a home a day. Can't you stay a little longer?" the sadness in her eyes made his heart ache with guilt. Hurriedly, he shoved it out of his mind. What if this truly was a revolutionary discovery? What if they had finally done it? With the tesseract in his power, he could finally take that which he had craved for his entire life.

Complete and utter control. Of everything.

"I am afraid not, my dear. I'll take you riding some other time. And look at it this way. You'll be able to go shopping with your friend, though God only knows what you wish to buy."

The look of distress still glinted in her eyes and he put his arm around her lightly, pulling her into an embrace. She buried her face in his coat, mumbling as tears began to trickle down her cheeks.

"You said you'd stay home longer this time."

"Wilhelmina,"

"You promised!" she cried, gazing up at him in anguish. He sighed, licking his lips, which had suddenly gone dry.

"Wilhelmina, I have a job to do. There is work to be done and my men need me to tell them what to do. Now, don't look so forlorn. My cause is for Germany, aren't you at least happy about that?" He held back a muttered scoff. The Americans could blow the living hell out of Germany, for all he cared. It wasn't as if they were doing him any favors. At least, the socialists were not.

"I don't care if it's for Germany." She said quietly, straightening up. "You're never home. It's almost as if you don't care about me or anything here. Only your work."

He raised an eyebrow quizzically. "Certainly even you would be smart enough to know that not a word of that is true."

She turned to head up the stairs. "Really?" she asked. "Prove it. Let me come with you."

At this, he could not hide his shock. "Absolutely not,"

"Why not?"

"My work is dangerous, Mina. Too dangerous for a little girl like you."

"Uncle, I'm sixteen! I'm not a child anymore, you can trust me!"

"Can I now?"

"Of course." She shook her head in disbelief. "Why ever would you not?"

"And you would swear to me allegiance till your dying day; that no one but me would ever sway you into a decision."

"Well… I suppose so."

He nodded once and adjusted his tie. "Then until you can reply with a solid answer, I cannot trust you fully. Therefore, you cannot be privy to the contents of my work."

He watched as she scowled bitterly and stormed off to her room, her choked sobs still audible as she turned the corner of the upper corridor.

Johann sighed and collected his things. He wouldn't need much in the line of necessities. He'd most likely be going straight to the laboratory anyhow.

"Christ, if Zola's telling to me a falsity, I might just have to shoot him."

XXX

She watched from her window as a convoy of army trucks lined up along the street, the monstrosity of a vehicle that her Uncle adored like his own child, bringing up the rear. She almost smiled, briefly recollecting the few driving lessons she'd had in that thing. Hulking in size with about bazillion odd little gadgets, it had taken her nearly an hour simply to turn the key in the ignition.

The loud thrum of the multiple engines roared over the clattering of raindrops. Mournfully she turned back to ready herself for bed, resigning herself to the fact that Johann would never entrust in her any part of his work.

Everything was so peculiarly secretive, so… enigmatic. And yet every inch of decorum in the house was somehow adorned with his beloved 'HYDRA' insignia. The car-keys, the silk napkins, the champagne flutes, the letter seals, the china plates and cutlery – he'd even given her a pewter pin in the shape of the odd, skull-headed octopus for her birthday. Not exactly something she'd fancied, but at the time the design had intrigued her. Yet, whenever she inquired as to its meaning, his response was always something akin to 'When you're older, you'll understand."

Only on rare occasions did he ever speak openly with her of the organization, merely to say that when she had finished growing, when she was a wise and proper adult with a prosperous career, that then, when the world was a much finer place to be, she would have power over all that he had created. He used to tell her stories, of how someday the world would belong only to the two of them, with all the possibilities in the world open for them. How she could have everything, anything in the world. How she would be the princess of his awesome dominion.

Naturally, at the time, she'd thought nothing of it. But now… surely it had been simply his irrational daydreaming. Mother had always talked of how dramatic he could be. But…

She stared down at the guards rushing to and fro, making last-minute preparations. Their leather uniforms and masks, hiding their faces, their bodies black as night when covered in the dark, thick material. One of the men, perhaps a bit taller than her, and skinny, a young boy.

She didn't exactly think about what she was doing, but her legs were already propelling toward the door.

XXX

Crouched behind the stone wall, just beside the hulking wrought-iron gate, she poised herself for a quick attack. The young boy darted back and forth, his breath being released from the mask in thick puffs. He was about her height, perhaps five foot six, lanky in form. If she could just get up behind him and knock him out –

Silently she thanked God for not endowing her with curves; hopefully the uniform would fit her rather shapeless figure perfectly. With luck it would be a little bit bigger, so her bust would easily be concealed.

The boy stopped at the end of one of the trucks, rain pouring off the shoulder pads of his uniform. Silently, Mina stood and slunk along the shadows, keeping out of the high-beams of the trucks. With a swift maneuver, she brought her fist around into boy's jugular, knocking him unconscious. The truck was facing in towards the property, and the guards were swarming about on the other side facing the main road. Quickly she dragged him back behind the wall and hurriedly fumbled with the zippers on the uniform, pulling on the heavy leather jumpsuit.

Her curls were pulled back with a hairband, and clumsily she shoved them high onto her head and pulled the mask on over her face. Next, the boots. She was used to the rather strenuous task of pulling on jackboots, and made fairly quick work of them.

The trucks revved up and the first row began to move.

Hurriedly she leapt out from behind the wall and got in line with several others, her heart pounding in her ears. Silently she filed into the truck, about seventeen other masks staring back at her, the emotions on their faces hidden by the alien-like uniforms.

Whatever was to happen now, she had no control over. All she could do was wait and see.

And hopefully not get killed.


	7. And fate, Also

**Ladies and Gentlemen, on this fine day, I present to you Chapter 7 of Athena. *No Applause, No Applause, Just Throw Money and Giftcards* **

**Ahem, anywho. I know I was promising a lot in the last chapter but, suffice to say, I wasn't quite feeling it (in other words, I was sick of going to bed with an unfinished fic on my conscience.**

**Anywho, basically, Mina sneaks out in disguise as one of her Uncle's guards and… kinda sees some stuff that she shouldn't be seeing… *suspense***

**Regards and Review,**

**J.B**

**Also, I've noticed whilst going back and re-reading these chapters that I talk a lot about the monetary value of things, and you might be wondering why this is. Namely, it's because, Schmidt basically came from nothing, and to be able to flaunt the fact that he raised himself up out of the depths of poverty, in my personal opinion, I believe he would flaunt his achievements with every opportunity he got.**

Tønsberg, Norway – 1942

"You are certain that this is the place, Dr. Zola?" he lounged in the driver's seat, smoking a cigarette and fussing half-heartedly with his uniform. Zola nodded in earnest.

"I don't think I could ever imagine such a discovery, Herr Schmidt. It's – _Mein Gott_ – it's truly mind-blowing, how remarkable the situation is. To think that all this time it was under our noses."

Schmidt glared slightly, though he kept his eyes on the steering wheel. "Only under _your_ nose, Arnim." He muttered.

The little scientist cleared his throat. "Yes, of course sir."

His superior nodded very slightly, as if affirming the action as appropriate. He took a sip from a pewter flask, naturally emblazoned with the Hydra insignia. The bitter taste of schnapps, slightly accented by mildly fruity notes. The bottle was twelve years old, from the very finest of makers. Naturally it was close to three hundred _Reichsmarks._

A masked guard marched stiffly towards them, his arms raised in staunch salute before his master.

"We are ready when you are, Herr Schmidt."

Gently he probed at his mask. "Ready the dozers, Corporal. Let us make our presence known."

The soldier nodded and hurried off. Johann cracked his jaw and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He could hear his own fervent prayers in his mind, his entire body shaking ever so slightly with anticipation, with the hopes that perhaps, at long last, after so much laboring, he would finally have his prize.

XXX

"Get your ass moving, boy!" one of the higher-ranking soldiers jabbed the barrel of his gun into her spine. "Lest you want one of Herr Schmidt's bullets in your back." He sneered.

She gritted her teeth as the gun connected with her flesh, biting back a pained yelp. "_Jawohl_, _mein Herr._" She spoke low, allowing the words to bubble up from the deep hollows of her throat. To appear, not so much as a female, but a child in general would no doubt lead to immediate suspicion. And suspicion, no doubt would lead to something very close to, if not death.

The soldier looked her up and down quizzically, before muttering, "You have orders, boy?"

"_Nein_."

The soldier grunted in irritation and lazily flicked a finger toward the start of the line of trucks. "Get in line with the first platoon. You'll be guarding the entrance after infiltration of the cathedral." He snickered. "I doubt you'd be strong enough to do much else."

She muttered a swear, scowling, but obeyed the soldier and marched stiffly toward the first few organized columns of black-clad guards. Her heart pounded in her chest and her hands trembled beneath the thick material of her gloves. She felt the sharp twinge of pain as a gun jabbed at her back with enough force to make her stumble clumsily into line. Uneasily she glanced out of the corner of her eyes the soldiers on other side of her, not daring to turn her head. They stood with the same robotic presence, that alien coldness that somehow separated them from humanity and created a race all their own.

They didn't possess that typical cockishness found in most soldiers, nor that slight undertone of fear of being faced with war.

No, these soldiers possessed no feeling at all, their movements stiff and lifeless to the point of inhuman.

She stared down at the clunky, black leather boots, and felt her heart contract in her chest. There was no going back now, no do-over, no chance to run. Gravely, she wondered if she was preparing for a premature death.

Suddenly the first row of guards shot their arms into the air, the heels of their jackboots clicking together echoing through the quiet late-night air, and the hollow 'clop' of boots hitting the cobblestoned path sounded loudly. Instinctively, her arms tensed, and within moments, every soldier around her threw up their arms in stiff, ram-rod straight salute.

Through squinted eyes, she strained to see as a tall, lanky figure, all in black, walked fluidly forward, flanked by soldiers, an air of silent authority about him. A long, heavy leather trench coat concealed a black uniform; a peaked, military-issue cap with the brim angled just so to allow only a hint of the blue of his irises to show.

She sucked in her breath, biting her lip. Of course, she should have expected to see her uncle; it was just… seeing him among the organization he so glorified and had the utmost passion and zeal for… she'd never been privy to any formation so large and so….

She couldn't even begin to describe it. The pure power that emanated from the sea of soldiers, the cold focus, the intense concentration and devotion that surely no other soldier possessed.

She watched as he stopped before the platoon, glancing at them briefly, his head inclining slightly, as if to show his approval. He then turned towards a row of hulking tank-like machines. Soldiers stood poised atop them, their arms slicing through the air, acknowledging his presence. He nodded to them once, and almost automatically, the huge guns jutting out from the front of machines turned with a sick grinding noise toward what looked to be the target structure.

An old stone cathedral, the structure crumbling, the bell-tower's wooden posts eroded and rotting. The massive guns extended, aiming their horrid looking snouts at the building. A soldier signaled the operators of the machines, and explosives were launched into the structure, followed by an ear-shattering cacophony of noise.

Smoke and dust billowed up from the crumbled structure, the thick clouds outlining Johann's lanky figure, the HYDRA insignia gleaming silver on the lapel of his black jacket. He turned to face his obedient soldiers, a cold gleam in his azure eyes.

"Gentlemen," his voice rang against the brisk winds. "Time and time again, we try and fail to procure that which will ultimately transform this empty shell of a world into a nirvana; a place where only the finest specimens of superiority will reign in glory." He paused almost deliberately, as if building up to a suspenseful climax. "That world will soon be ours."

As if somehow cued, the soldiers roared in approval, their voices almost robotic as they chanted, _Hail HYDRA_.

A shiver ran down her spine – the extremity of it all… it bordered on cultish. Even Hitler's vigorous speeches and ram-rod straight soldiers were nothing compared to this. _That world will soon be ours_.

What world? Did he speak of wiping out the Jews, purifying the universe? What could he mean? Surely it was merely a pre-made speech, fabricated by the Führer's numerous secretaries. Or was it?

_Mein Gott_, she thought. _What am I doing?_

XXX

"Open it!" an officer barked, his high-pitched voice echoing loudly.

The grinding of stone on stone and the grunts of soldiers throwing all their weight against the huge burial vault brashly interrupted the otherwise peaceful quiet of the old cathedral. She stood to the side, alongside several other younger soldiers, watching through the dusty lenses of the heavy leather mask with some amount of fascination. Aside from wondering, what on earth was in a burial vault that possessed any intrigue for Hitler? What good was a skeleton for the Reich?

The officer's sharp shriek rang out again, "Quickly before he gets –"

The last word was cut off as a dark figure appeared on the more or less destroyed threshold, beams of light cast off from the flood-lamps on the tank-like crafts, highlighting the blackish silhouette. Instantly, the soldiers backed away from the vault, scurrying to the side like frightened mice.

Instinctively, her muscles tensed beneath the uniform.

She watched his careful, fluid steps as he walked across the mounds of rubble delicately, his gloved hands balled into fists, his azure irises cold and gleaming in the waning light of the wall-sconces.

He stopped before the man that lay sprawled across the ground, the Norse's eyes glassy with what she suspected to be fear.

"It has taken me a long time to find this place," he said slowly, deliberately. "You should be commended." He glanced at one of the soldiers. "Help him up."

Dutifully the soldier hurried towards the man, yanking him up so that he stared back into Johann's bright eyes.

"I think that you are a man of great vision, and in this way we are much alike."

The man scowled at him bitterly. "I am nothing like you." He spat.

"No, of course, but, what others see as superstition, you and I know to be a science."

"What you seek," he said almost feverishly, "is just a legend."

"Then why make such an effort to conceal it?" he cut in, his tone momentarily loosing its fluid placidity, replaced by blatant impatience.

Ignoring the man's cold glare, he started towards the vault. He stared at it levelly, as if sizing it up, and handed off his cap to one of the other men. He placed his gloved hands onto the stone, flexing his fingers briefly, and with a solid push, the lid easily slid off, revealing the rotted corpse within.

Her eyes widened slightly, and she clenched her fists. If three able-bodied men could not move the heavy stone, how could simply one man?

Gingerly, he reached into the vault, delicately wrapping his fingers around a glass prism-shaped object, yanking it from the stiff grasp of the corpse. He held up into the dim light, inspecting it almost half-heartedly. He turned to the man, projecting the object towards him.

"The tesseract," he mused, "was the jewel of Odin's treasure room." He eyed the man almost quizzically before allowing it to slip through his fingers, striking the stone floor and shattering instantly.

A sound like raining hail echoed throughout, and she noted that this time, it was not simply her who felt her heart tighten in surprise. Even the highest-ranking officer's eyes widened briefly.

Johann looked the man grimly. "It is not something one buries." He stated flatly, as if that was enough to explain his action. He stepped closer to the man, the toe of his boot grazing the other man's shoe.

"But," his voice lowered to barely above a whisper. "I think it is close, yes?" he cast a cursory glance over his shoulder. The man's Adam's apple bobbed slightly, as he swallowed.

"I cannot help you." He answered finally, his staring out blankly.

"No," he confirmed. "But maybe you can help your village. You must have some friends out there… some little grandchildren perhaps. I have no need for them to die."

The man's eyes flickered from the ground and onto him, his expression a mixture of appalled disgust and blatant loathing. He glanced toward the hulking tank that loomed outside, the sound of metal on metal echoing as the huge guns rotated slowly, facing outwards toward the city.

The man swallowed again, and only very slightly inclined his head.

But it was enough.

He turned toward the back wall, her gaze following him as he slowly advanced on the large, exquisite mural, carved intricately into the wood.

"Yggdrasil." His rolled the word along his tongue slowly, and briefly she thought back to long ago when she was still a little girl. How when she could not sleep, she would drag her pillow and blanket into Uncle's study, and listen to him prattle on for hours about his beloved mythology, telling her stories of Odin and Thor, of princesses and princes and gallant warriors. She'd usually fall asleep after an hour or so, but though mythology rather bored her, she cherished the times when she was young enough to listen to the stories intently.

"Tree of the world." He continued, louder this time. "Guardian of wisdom." He inspected it carefully, his eyes traveling along the tangled branches and twisted roots. "And _fate_, also."

Gingerly, he reached out a gloved hand, tracing the tip of his thumb along one of the wooden roots, trailing it delicately across the grain until it grazed the wooden eye of a snake-like creature. He eyed it quizzically for a moment, as if weighing the balance of things. Would some explosion of fire engulf him if he pressed it? Or would some hidden mechanism jump out and slice his hand from his wrist.

His eyes moved slightly, as if barely glancing away from the wooden eye. But without further hesitation, he pressed inward.

She sucked in her breath as a loud 'click' echoed, and a small wooden box, the size of small package, popped out. Gingerly, he lifted the lid, allowing a blinding cobalt light to flood out, illuminating the alcove. Accompanied by this, was a low, unearthly humming sound.

He gazed at it intently. "And the Führer digs for trinkets in the desert." He muttered, glancing up at the Norwegian man. "You have never seen this, have you?

The man lowered his eyes uncertainly. "It is not for the eyes of ordinary men."

A slight smirk graced his lips. "Exactly." He snapped the box shut, swiftly walking towards the threshold, retrieving his cap from the soldier and placing it delicately upon his head.

"Give the order to open fire."

"Fool!" the Norse's voice called out. Johann glanced at him with some irritation. "You cannot control the power you hold. You will burn!"

Mina watched from the side as his gloved hand moved to the pocket of his coat. "I already have."

The man made a move but his revolver was already out, the sound of gunshot ringing in her ears. Blood spattered from the man's chest; inadvertently, a yelp escaped her lips before she could clamp her mouth shut.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she watched him cast a glance over his shoulder, eyeing her for only a moment before stalking off.

She was done for. At least several pairs of eyes watched her carefully now, looking for where the high-pitched sound had come from. Deterred by the sudden silence, they obediently cast away their curious eyes and hurried off to follow their superior.

She heaved a sigh of relief and turned to follow as well, back to the convoy –

Someone tapped her shoulder lightly. Unthinkingly, she turned –

Only to be greeted by a small little man with a red bow-tie and a folio of design blueprints tucked under his arm, several leather-clad soldiers standing behind him. For a moment, she gaped beneath the mask, opening her mouth to speak, but found her throat dry.

She raised a hand but he pressed a gloved finger to his lips, almost smiling. He gazed past her, and uncertainly, she turned to see where he was looking –

A blur of metal cut through the dusty air, colliding with her head.

She was only vaguely conscious as her legs buckled beneath her and the cathedral walls spun.

Her eyes flickered beneath the mask's lenses, and the world went swiftly black.


	8. Schmidt's Revelations

**Ladies and Gentleman, I present to you, Chapter 8 of Athena. Honestly, I have to say, I'm rather proud that I've kept up a fic for this long – I usually loose interest by the fourth chapter so… hopefully this one's everything y'all expected! I was a little worried about the last chapter – I was afraid it would be too movie-esque, but the lines were so priceless in the opening scene in the film… I just had to keep them. It would almost be sacrilege to further doctor it. So anywho…**

**Last chapter's review flow was a lagging a hair… perhaps you'd like to brighten my day? Perty please? You'll get mentioned in the blurb on next chapter!:) Everyone wants that right?**

**Nah, I kid. But you will get mentioned in the blurb with my sincerest thanks as always Speaking of which, special thanks to Blackbird71 for confirming that film-accuracy worked well And as always, my gratitude to kukapetal for the loads of precious advice! And also, special thanks to The Authy and KarToon12!**

**(Truly, I wouldn't have a clue what I was doing if it weren't for you guys!)**

**Regards,**

**J.B**

**Translation of Norse Mythology Quote: Where there is no discipline, there is no honor.**

Tønsberg, Norway – 1942

"Tell me Doctor Zola, enlighten me. Why is that children so often find themselves compelled to disobey their elders?"

He probed at his mask with a gloved hand, scowling. Zola straightened his bowtie absently.

"I cannot tell you, sir. I have no children of my own."

"Neither do I."

"You have more experience than I do, sir. I can't imagine what your niece's reasons for – sneaking about like this – were."

Johann sighed, running a long finger across her cheek. "_Der det er ingen disiplin er det ingen aere._"

He looked out at vast horizon, taking note of the sunrise. "Do you have any elixirs on your person, Doctor Zola?"

"A few perhaps. Why do you ask?"

"Give her something to keep her unconscious. The last thing I need is her waking up before our arrival in Berlin. Zola nodded and hurried off to find his briefcase. Johann sighed again, deeply and lit a cigarette. He glanced down at Mina's unconscious form.

"It is a pity that I spoil you so." He muttered and hefted her sleeping form into the backseat of his car, removing his coat and laying it over her. "Whatever bruise you suffer from Zola's blunt aim is well-deserved."

XXX

Normally, the views of Denmark would have had him in a pleasingly peaceful and easy mood. The red sun rising up from its alcove in the thick morning clouds, the cool breeze eating up the smoke curling off the tip of his cigarette. Lazily he ran a gloved hand through his fabricated dark hair, the wind whipping through it.

Of course, that probably was due to the fact that he was driving at over 100 miles per hour. But who was going to complain? At this time of the morning, and on a deserted road? Besides, if he so desired he could easily shoot any dumb-ass driver who felt compelled to bother him. But, that _would_ be horribly rude.

He almost chuckled. And yet, despite having ample reason to be in a light-hearted and exuberantly satisfied mood, he couldn't help but allow his emotions to be overwhelmed by the deep sense of annoyance welling in the pit of his stomach.

He cast a distasteful glance back at the sleeping body of his niece, still dressed in the heavy uniform, his very first and most favored design for his soldiers.

It irked him so. Every one of his soldiers had been trained to analyze everything, even the smallest, miniscule detail. And yet a girl dressed in men's clothes had seemingly slipped beneath their noses. The slightest difference in tone of voice, the refinement of the individual's movements, their precision in carrying out orders. Every one of his men had been hand-picked and closely interrogated and investigated by himself. It was not easy to be admitted into HYDRA.

Not only did one swear a death-oath of loyalty to him, they quit their jobs, disowned their families, completely lost their identities. In his business, security was crucial. Only the men who were willing to throw away everything from their past lives and devote their energies solely to the task of carrying out detailed and precise terroristic operations were chosen.

And of course, once you got in, rising up in both rank and prestige was perhaps even harder than admission. It was only the ones who shared his deep lust for revenge, his taste for destruction and chaos that truly flourished in the organization.

So far, no one had succeeded in fully gaining his trust, and allowing him to select a confidante. Though the bulk of his time was spent conferring with Zola, the skittish doctor was hardly adequate material.

He had always hoped that once Wilhelmina advanced in maturity and intelligence, she would be able to join him in the running of the organization.

He felt his heart twinge. It was just that… he hadn't expected for her to become involved so _terribly_ soon. She was still quite too young, too naïve and oblivious to things to understand his way of thinking. Simply put, she was still so… so _good_.

She was pleasant-mannered, sweet and affectionate – she wouldn't dream of hurting a fly.

She had yet to see the world as he did, to see it for all its corruption and filth.

And a part of him never wanted her to see it as he had.

"_And she won't have to._" He heard himself whisper. And it was true. She wouldn't have to.

With the tesseract in his grasp, she would never have to suffer the grief, the anger, the annoyance, the disturbance – the one dimensional thinking of this sad shell of a world.

Left on that dismal note, the twinge of annoyance seemed to dissolve, only to be overcome by a sort of somber air of gloom.

Devising a way to divert her attention from the cube was the least of his worries, child's play at best. Simply dismissing the matter as trivial would no doubt arouse some suspicion from her, but if he chose instead to adamantly defend the topic as merely an order from Hitler, her scheming little mind would be all too eager to test out his 'alibi'.

Absently, he probed at his mask, his fingers craving ever so slightly to tear of the precisely sculpted silicon and plastic material.

Another matter to worry about, one that he often contemplated late into the ungodly hours of the night.

It was almost impossible to comprehend, how in such an infinitely short amount of time, his life had been stretched and twisted, torn up and patched back together, morphed into an unreadable web of lies and secrets and too much drama than one could ever stand.

And although he amused himself by pretending he could reveal them all, he knew in his heart he could not.

Wilhelmina – if she ever found out – found anything at all about his past – what would she think?

She had not suffered the cruelty of this world, had not endured the agonizing backlash of imperfection. She hadn't had years of dreaming and fantasizing thrown back in her face, hadn't had her last defense torn apart.

The Third Reich had failed him, had rung out his determination, had scoured him of all belief.

And just when he lay on the brink of defeat, the serum – it had turned his life around, given him that superiority that all his life he had craved.

And yet – the serum itself was an imperfection. It had incinerated his flesh, leaving an ugly, charred shell of his former self.

At the time, it had seemed like such a small price to pay, for that intellectual perfection that he so deeply desired, that brilliance and power that would finally set him apart from the rest of humanity.

It wasn't until the death of his sister that the true complexity of his world sank in, the deep sense of emptiness and unfulfilment.

The horrible losses he'd suffered that year; Victoria's betrayal, Angelika's death – life had seemed useless. But the events only intensified his lust for power and perfection.

A world where higher beings were worshipped like Gods, where the crumbling earth was transformed into a highly advanced nirvana for the superior and the visionaries. Where no one would have to be ravaged by death or greed or cruelty.

Everything about it was so satiable and tangible and so utterly _perfect_.

Only sadly, few saw his vision that way. Small disagreements had led to the entire Gestapo organization and Hitler himself seeing him as nothing more than a mad lunatic living in a fantasy world – _keep him busy with his toys so as not to cause further public disturbances_, as Himmler had once suggested to the Führer.

Angelika's voice echoed in his mind softly. _Madness is merely one's way of being creative_, as she had so often soothed whilst smoothing his hair, his long fingers vigorously massaging his temples. Probably sputtering angrily over one officer's remark, whatever it may have been that week.

He flexed his gloved fingers against the steering wheel, the sun ever brighter now. When he stared into the thin, wisps of clouds, he could almost see her face.

_ Her red hair hung in unkempt, matted strings now. Such a far cry from its former, glossy beauty. Her rosy cheeks had paled to a pasty chalky color, her sky-blue eyes dulled to a washed-out gray. Her lips were dry, a dark purple color, and her breathing was raggedy and shallow._

_She lifted a thin, bony hand to his face, sending a deep cold through the material of his mask._

_Her lips parted, and her voice, a meek whisper, seeped out slowly, laboriously._

_ "Johann,"_

_ "Ja, meine Schwester? I am here."_

_ "Johann," her fingers probed at his skin, "What have you done?"_

_ "What are you talking about, Angelika?"_

_She swallowed hard, closing her eyes, as if the slightest movement was enough to drain her of energy. "Johann, show me. Show me what you have done."_

_ "Angelika, please, it's the medicine. I have not done anything."_

_Her eyes widened as she gasped. "Johann, please, do not lie to me. Not now. Just… just show me."_

_ "Angelika please," _

_But her fingers were already climbing, feeling gingerly for the seams of his mask. They caught the edge, gently peeling back. But his gloved hand was far faster, clutching at her limp one before she could move further. Gingerly, he placed it down by her side._

_She gazed up at him with tear-filled eyes. Her lips barely moved, but a barely audible mumbling leaked out._

_He sighed deeply and closed his eyes, grasping at the seam very gently, and peeling it back entirely._

_Her eyes widened, the pupils dilating._

_Her shivering hands cascaded across his face, feverishly exploring the contours, gazing up in a mixture of horror and awe._

_ "Johann," she breathed, "Johann… why? Why couldn't you… why… couldn't you… couldn't you recognize…"_

_ "What Angelika?" his own voice was a whisper._

_Tears trickled down her ashen cheeks. "You were perfect the way you were."_

_She breathed in deeply, and her eyes flickered closed. Her hands fell limp across her chest._

_His heart contracted in his chest. "Angelika," he tapped her cheek lightly. "Angelika,"_

_His mouth went dry, his throat closing up. "Angelika wake up! Wake up, Angelika!" his whispers heightened in volume, his breaths more ragged._

But she didn't wake up.

It was the first time he had wept in such a long time, his ragged howls and screams, begging God for another chance, cursing at him. Why, Angelika? Why such an angel, who never dreamt of hurting a soul.

Why his sister? Why?


	9. A Son will Die Today

**Ladies and Gentlemen, I proudly give to you, Chapter 9 (EEEEEEEEEKK I CANNOT BELIEVE I'VE MADE IT THIS FAR WITHOUT DROPPING THE STORY) of Athena. But God, has this one been a BEAR to write. I deleted like half of this thing and rewrote it, there were so many flaws! Good thing I love my readers so much:) Hehe, well, enough of this, on to the goods.**

**This is where things start to get interesting between Mina and Schmidt. Basically abandoned by her uncle and left without answers, Mina decides to do some investigating... again… although the repercussions are decidedly more violent… I know this one's longer than the others, but bear with me. Also, I know there's been repetition with my female starlets here, but for the last few chapters it was mostly because I could only reveal so much insight on a character at once, and only from one point of view which is Schmidt's, and well… he's got quite a few women in his life **

**And… Ok so, I initially planned to not have her disguise herself but… the odds of getting on a HYDRA train in civilian get-up and obviously a girl… yeah… that doesn't work with Schmidt's state-of-the-art security system. So… soldier-boy-dress-up updated. But this time, it gets far dicey-er. Cool?**

**Special Thanks to kukapetal for the super morale-boosting PMs and awesome advice! And KarToon12! And Blackbird 71! And the Authy! And… anybody else…**

**Regards,**

**J.B**

**Oh and before I forget…**

**Translations from German: **

**Yes, Miss? What may I do for you? – Dialogue with Sophie**

_**Einsatzfahrzeuge – **_**Operational Vehicles**

_**Mach Schnell **_**– Hurry**

**And… to state the obvious, **_**Dummkopf**_** is idiot**

**Oh and um… also… please do ignore that the Alps, realistically are several hours away from Berlin and just… go with what I've got here, K? Thanks **

Berlin, Germany – 1942

**YES, YES, I KNOW, THERE ARE SOME VERY CORNY LINES IN HERE WHEN SHE GETS HOLD OF THE – WELL YOU'LL SEE…**

She gazed absently at the diamond-shaped rays of light that poured in through the leaded-glass windows of her room, the sunlight almost blinding, the dull throbbing in her head growing ever stronger.

Sophie, the scullery maid, hovered over her, a silver tray with a teapot visible resting in her hands.

"_Frauline,_" her meek voice echoed ever so gently, but it was enough to send her head reeling. Immediately noticing her discomfort, the woman hastily set down the tray and called for Inga in her native slang German, something about fetching damp facecloths and peroxide for the welts in her back.

Come to think of it, her head truly wasn't the only thing throbbing.

"Sophie… Sophie?"

The maid turned back to her almost frantically, kneeling beside her bed. "_Ja, meine Frauline_? _Was kann ich f__ü__r Sie tun?_"

"What…" she clutched at her aching head. "What happened? Where is my Uncle?"

"I am sorry, Miss. Your uncle left soon after he arrived here. He waited until you were well situated and departed. He said he had urgent business to take care of."

"But my head… what… how…"

The young woman sighed softly. "_Herr _Schmidt was very vague, Miss. He didn't give us too much detail – merely said that you'd gotten hit over the head or something and might have had a mild concussion."

"From getting hit over the head?"

"He said you struck the ground rather soundly."

She rested her head back against the pillow. "That was all he said? And then he just left?"

"Just about, ma'am. He seemed quite impatient."

Mina sighed, at the moment, too confused and fatigued to understand or think about any of it.

"Miss Mina," Sophie's voice was insistent.

"Yes, Sophie?"

"What were you doing in Norway with your Uncle? He's never taken you on any of his business trips before."

XXX

HYDRA Laboratory

The Alps - 1942

The gusty winds sent shards of ice spiraling into the bleak horizon; the landscape here constantly swirling and evolving and changing. He stared out into the white emptiness, taking in, with a deep sigh, the quiet serenity of his surroundings. His gloved hands clenched into fists at his side. Quietly and melodically, he began to hum, the deep and dark tones of Chopin's _Funeral March_ ringing clearly in his ears. His long, slender fingers loosened, and he could almost feel the ebony and ivory keys beneath his fingertips, the sound of a summer downpour, the raindrops pattering against the windowsill.

He had never been able to quite fathom why it was that at seemingly climactic moments such as these, he so longed for his piano, for the deep serenity of being alone and at peace in his own home, going about quietly making music and absorbing the deep inspiration of art.

He sighed again, deeply, and probed at the edges of his mask, the silicon material tugging at his neck as he glanced over his shoulder at Zola. The little scientist, at present was fiddling with his machines as if they were building blocks, timidly perfecting the blemishes in his structure.

"How much longer must you have to prepare your machine, Arnim?" his voice quiet and delicate, an almost lilting quality to it. Perhaps the troops would have preferred it, over their commander's typical harsh rasp, but it startled Zola immensely.

"Perhaps fifteen minutes more, _mein Herr_."

He watched silently as his superior visibly fought back a harsher response, causing the scientist to shudder ever so slightly. "You could not have done this earlier? Surely you knew how much time would have to be devoted to merely setting your little contraption up." He instead spat bitterly.

Zola lowered his head, as if a puppy anticipating a whipping. "I – I am sorry, _Herr_ Schmidt."

He watched as the man's fists clenched and unclenched, as if only barely containing his irritation. His next words were said almost so quietly, they were inaudible; his every pause precisely measured.

"That, my dear doctor, is what every man will claim, no matter what the reason." He ran his tongue along his teeth, his blood slowly beginning to boil as it surged through his veins. "Did you know, Doctor?"

"Did I know what, sir?"

"That a son will break his mother's favorite vase today. He will cry profusely, and he will be forgiven." He inhaled deeply. "On this same day, next year, that son will break a window with his football. He will ramble on tirelessly of how it was all merely an accident, though he knows in his mind, and he cackles, knowing that at the end of the day, he will still go unpunished."

Zola swallowed hard, watching his superior's voice escalate, the fanaticism with which he spoke rising every moment, growing more vivid with fury.

"Every day of every year of his sad, pathetic life will go wasted, filled with innumerable lies, meaningless apologies, expecting immediate forgiveness. He will never know what punishment is; will never be forced to experience the pain and suffering that so often accompanies the moments where forgiveness, surprisingly, is not granted. He will live out the hollow extent of his being and depart without so much as a single tear of defeat, without so much as a fraction of a battle scar. He will never experience the fear, the remorse, the realization of every lie he's ever spun, of every _'I am sorry'_, he has so thoughtlessly blurted out. Not until the chilling tip of a dagger or the heavy weight of a gun's barrel rests against his throat, no feeling, no emotion, all lack of forgiveness. And, in the end, it will have been all too late for the son. Only those three useless little words will ever realize how truly meaningless they are, hanging suspended in the air, watching the blood spurt from his wounds, watching him die. Only then, will _someone_ realize that it truly is better to ask permission than to _beg_ forgiveness."

His fists clenched tighter at his sides, his breaths ragged, his heart raging within his chest, no regard for the fury pouring out of him, or the silent contemplation of his assistant. Slowly, he cast a cursory glance over his shoulder.

Zola stood stock-still, but as he spoke, his voice, surprisingly, was very steady.

"You did what was best for the girl –"

"She is not ready to witness the nature of my work." He answered quickly.

"But you could have done better."

Johann felt his heart contract; whether or not it was with anger or guilt, he could not identify.

"How so?"

Zola sighed. "Children are enigmas, _mein Herr_, so difficult to explain. At times, they can possess the maturity and intellect of a seasoned philosopher. At other times, they can be just as nonsensical and foolish. I know it has been a very long time since I was a child, sir, but I can tell you that, rarely if ever I became curious about something that didn't truly interest me."

He removed his glasses, wiping a gloved hand across his brow. "If your niece went through so much trouble, merely to disguise herself long enough to be privy to that which so intrigued you, who is to say that she is not ready to witness the nature of your work? Who is to say that she is not interested? I apologize, _mein Herr_ – and with great meaning –but I must disagree with you. If the girl truly wants to grow and learn, then let her."

He placed his specs back onto the edge of his nose, toying once again with the dials for a few moments more.

Johann sighed deeply, staring out into the never-ending white, a sickening feeling that the scientist was right, welling in the pit of his stomach. He exhaled again, and turned on his heel, away from the monstrous panoramic window.

"Are you ready, Doctor Zola?"

The man ignored him for a moment, his normally bug-eyed pupils further magnified by the glass through which he stared intently. "Just a few moments now, sir. My machine requires the most delicate calibration. Forgive me if I seem – over- cautious."

Johann glanced over at his assistant, his blue irises skimming over an ornate illustration of Norse lore. A wood carving of two lanky males, both with expressions of awe as they stared deeply into a prism-like figure. "And you are certain that those conductors of yours can withstand the energy surge long enough for transference?"

Zola looked up at his superior tiredly. "With this artifact," he sighed, "I am certain of nothing." He glanced back down at the machine; his fingers brushing against various knobs and dials with a certain fondness. "I fear it may not work at all."

Johann's response was silence, instead gently lifting the ornately detailed wooden box and setting it down by the cold steel holder, specifically designed to maneuver the tesseract. Zola sucked in his breath, pausing for a split-second before hurriedly removing his specs, replacing them with dark shades in order to evade some of the blinding blue light. Naturally, Schmidt did not even flinch at the sheer divine power that emanated from the object.

With the utmost precision, he pushed the tesseract and its holder firmly into its nest deep within the coiling wires of Zola's machine, giving it a slight twist, locking it into place.

Almost feverishly, Zola twisted at the dials, his gloved hands visibly trembling. The machine rumbled as it slowly turned on, a metallic ringing echoing about the room, coupled with the tesseract's muffled hum.

"Twenty percent… forty…."

He glanced up at Schmidt, the man probing at his mask, his eyes glowing in the reflected light of the cube.

"Sixty…"

He glanced up again; the machine's loud humming growing ever slower.

"Stabilizing at seventy percent –"

The irritation was blatant in Schmidt's voice. Zola fought back a frightened gasp as he was shoved out of the way, his superior taking a firm hold of the dials.

"I have not come all this way for safety, Doctor." The machine's slow hum revved up as the full force of the mechanism drained into the tesseract.

Coiling threads of blinding blue sparked up, the sound of static and the scent of smoke, coupled with unearthly shrieks echoed throughout the laboratory. An ethereal light exploded from the tesseract, deep within the device, temporarily blinding the two men, the far-off shrieks and babbled languages and metallic whispers too overwhelming for the senses.

Johann, so confident only a few moments ago, felt every nerve in his body contract with something he hadn't felt in so long.

Fear.

Not fear for his own safety, but fear for the artifact itself. Surely this was not another failure – he no longer had the luxury of leisurely progress. With the Nazis breathing down his neck, he knew that sooner rather than later, the ties had to be severed. Another failed device, another botched plan. The Gestapo were no idiots. They would catch on sooner or later to the true focus of his plans.

Success was critical.

Suddenly, the machine roared with a last gasp of persistence, before backfiring, the entire system of parts shutting down, sending up thick plumes of smoke, shot through with leftover sparks.

He could hear Zola's breaths, shuddering and shallow.

"What was that?" the little scientist whispered like a child, staring up at him with huge eyes, as if looking – begging – for any sort of guidance.

Johann stared down at the small containment device, perched at the machine's edge. He exhaled sharply, his clenched fists loosening. He placed a gloved hand heavily upon Zola's shoulders, pivoting him about to look at his device.

"I must congratulate you, Arnim. Your designs do not disappoint."

He glanced about, surveying the smoking metal with a certain curiosity. "Though they might require some slight… reinforcement."

Zola's stared, bug-eyed as per usual, but emphasized with the deep childish excitement running through his veins.

"The exchange is stable. Amazing." He looked over at Schmidt, his hands wringing with delight. "The energy we have just collected – it could power my designs, all my designs." He chuckled ever so quietly, almost manically. "This could change the war."

"Dr. Zola, this could change the _world._"

XXX

The Schmidt Household

Berlin, Germany – 1942

Her head throbbed persistently, the 'organized chaos' of Johann's study furthering her migraine. Papers and books, weapons and prototypes; every surface was littered with useless… _junk_. Empty coffee mugs, brandy flukes, half-finished cigarettes, several full ash-trays.

If the man wasn't shut up in his laboratory somewhere far off in the mountains, he was spending many a sleepless night locked in his study, even the minutest interruption enough to set him boiling with fury.

So devoted to his work, although what his work was, she had no idea. But she regarded his strange obsessions as most definitely unhealthy.

"For all your attention to detail, clearly a career in housewifery is not your calling." She mumbled, sweeping aside a few loose papers, the sticky rims of past coffee mugs staining through them.

Amid the shambles, what was of any import to her, she had no real idea. Although… to begin with, she didn't know what she was looking for. Perhaps a random item, a date scribbled down onto paper, a time, something to give her motive.

Undeniably so, she felt a pang of anger course through her, at the thought of Johann so unceremoniously dropping her onto a bed and driving off to do God only knew what, without so much as a brief explanation.

At the same time though, she couldn't help but feel a slight sensation of guilt. Granted, she was no angel for running off in the middle of the night to dress up like a soldier-boy.

But the constant secrets, the ever so enigmatic behavior, it drove her mad. He'd vaguely reference a meeting or a discovery or some fancy expedition, but never more than a few mumbled words before quickly clearing out. It was almost as if he was taunting her, throwing riddles and puzzles at her, all to keep her from gaining that which she craved most.

His trust. To finally be privy to all his secrets, to finally know of the motives of his beloved HYDRA.

To be so continuously sheltered, not only from his work but from everything….

She sighed, cradling her head in her hands. Johann had always been so terribly protective of her – never allowing her to go to parties or sleepovers, never allowing her to see films with her friends.

She walked to school in the morning, walked home, did her homework, and awaited further instructions. Chores were always brutal – if her room wasn't spotless, an hour of rigorous fencing, whilst reciting ancient Norse. If the dishes were not shined to sparkling after dinner – the most horrific piano lessons. Chopin's _Fantasy Impromptu_ whilst deciphering complicated algorithms.

So often she felt like Cinderella, never able to reach the ball. Only ever was she allowed to take part in any events if she achieved all of her lessons and chores in record time – and so rarely was that goal ever reached. He nit-picked at every little detail, from her posture to her marksmanship.

And all for no visible reason. Of course, he wasn't an abusive guardian. He cared for her when she was ill, bought her beautiful clothes from only the finest boutiques in Paris, took her riding in the Bavarian countryside, evenings at the opera. His somewhat unethical forms of education, he explained, were merely to stimulate her intellect, as the private schools so horrifically failed to achieve.

But why? What need did she have to be 'intellectually stimulated'? She received good marks, excelled in her classes. So often she'd passed it off for his obsession with perfection.

But what if it was more than that? What if, perhaps, he was preparing for something, some unknown destiny?

"But what?" she found herself whispering. "What good am I to the Reich?"

She knew she was different. Stronger, more agile than normal girls her age. Of course, several years prior she'd barely been able to lift her schoolbooks off the ground. She vaguely remembered when it had happened; the stinging sensation of a needle-sharp point penetrating her flesh – a deep fiery ache coupled with sheer adrenaline coursing through her body, setting her senses alight.

A mere few moments of agonizing pain and stretching and convulsing and then… nothing.

Surprisingly, she felt no different, though her physicians stood in awe of her miraculous improvement. She looked the same, felt the same. Normal. She wasn't ill or weak, but she didn't feel like superman either.

The training had grown worse since then, constantly having to devote her time to physical training, more and more studying, working and working and working and with seemingly no end and no goal.

She massaged her temples lightly. All she wanted was clarification, understanding. Was it truly such a crime to ask for such?

Her fingers brushed against something. She glanced down to see a small leather-bound booklet. Emblazoned into the cover was, 'HYDRA _Einsatzfahrzeuge_'.

She thumbed through the pages delicately. Arrivals, departures, locations, locations. A mundane train log, nothing more.

And yet, it was her ticket out.

She held it up into the light, staring at it in silence.

_Train X2543 _

_Arrival at Berlin Loading Docks – 5:30 PM_

_Departure – 7:45 PM_

_Destination: HYDRA Base_

XXX

A thick layer of clouds slowly filtered through the sun-shot sky, a strong, chilling breeze slowly gaining speed as it funneled through the tightly packed city. The last commuter train was rumbling out of the _Berlin Anholter Bahnhof_, the tired workers shuffling about the platform, their heads bowed down against the wind. A few Gestapo stood about smoking and chatting amongst themselves, but didn't seem to notice her, quietly making her way toward the very last stop.

A hulking, long locomotive, black as the night, chugged slowly through the station, a white skull with octopus tentacles swirling out from beneath its jaw, gaping in a sort of agonized shock. As the train halted, squadrons of black-clad guards filed off, holding up gleaming metal rifles in port arms. Several Nazi officers crossed over to the men, inspecting them quickly before waving them on and moving to the next platoon.

She slouched lower, letting the collar of her coat partially cover her head. She glanced down at the leather log book in her hands, the pages fluttering in the wind.

_5:30 PM arrival at Loading Docks_

_ 7:25 PM inspection by Gestapo Guards_

_ 7:30 PM Final sweep of the train for discrepancies_

_ 7:45 PM Departure for HYDRA Base_

She frowned at the schedule. Her window of time was far too narrow for comfort. The Alps were more than five hours out of Berlin – staying unnoticed for so long would require not only an excellent disguise but prepared orders. The fifteen minutes between the final sweep and departure were enough for her to successfully knock out a guard and find someplace nondescript to leave behind the body. But this time she'd need more than a uniform – a log book, a schedule, identification… anything to keep her unnoticed.

And there was always the chance that the guard would wake up a little too early for her tastes.

Her fingers closed around a small bottle of sleeping capsules. One would sedate a man for roughly six hours. Two or three… or five….

She raised the bottle to her mouth, pressing it to her lips as if it were a crucifix. Yes, the soldier would sleep through the night and then some.

The train's operator shouted the beginning of the last inspection and the squadrons parted like frightened bees, scattering about, some going in, some scouting about the perimeter. Silently, she closed the book and rose, pulling her collar further over her head.

A young soldier, perhaps of eighteen or nineteen years and about her height, dressed in full HYDRA regalia glanced from side to side instinctively, before removing his mask, revealing a smooth white face, ragged blond hair pasted to his skull. With trembling gloved hands, he put a cigarette to his lips, breathing in the thick smoke.

He was the perfect target, obviously young and new on the job, for he lacked that certain inhumanness that other soldiers possessed. He fidgeted like an unsettled child. A little ad-libbing, a bit of innocence. A mundane request for directions.

"_Guten Abend_."

His eyes shot up as she approached, the cigarette falling from his fingers.

"What do you want?" his voice was shaky, high-pitched.

She bowed slightly. "I'm sorry sir. I have just arrived here from Rothenberg … are you a native of Berlin?"

He eyed her cautiously, his breaths shallow and rapid.

"I – I am not authorized to reveal such information."

"I'm sorry, how rude of me to intrude so abruptly. I just want to know where I can call a cab for the _Alexanderplatz_."

"Ask one of the guards."

"I did. They laughed at me and told me I was better off in the country. Very rude, you city-dwellers." The soldier's face remained expressionless.

"Could you please just point me in the right direction?"

The corner of his lip twitched slightly with irritation. He sighed quietly and nodded, before straightening and walking ahead. Instinctively she followed.

The young guard stopped at the last entrance toward the cab stops and nodded.

"Take this exit." He muttered and turned to leave.

His head snapped back as she delivered a swift blow to the back of his neck, following it with a roundhouse kick to the gut. The soldier barely was able to whimper before crashing to the ground, his heavy leather mask falling to his side.

Her hands shook as she pried his mouth open, dropping several of the capsules onto his tongue and tipping his chin back. A quick glance to see if the pills had gone down and she began the somewhat laborious task of dragging the body to a secure hiding place.

Hefting the soldier into a darkened alcove behind one of the numerous benches, she quickly removed his uniform, pulling on the heavy leather jumpsuit and jackboots.

Although she couldn't quite fathom why, for some reason, she felt not fear, but adrenaline as she intently disguised herself, a sort of deeply-rooted curiosity coursing through her veins.

It wasn't the excitement of doing something 'wrong' per say, but the excitement of discovery, of new horizons, of the unknown. Perhaps it was juvenile, to look at something so terrifyingly dangerous with a sort of lust.

And yet, somehow, she didn't stop what she was doing, didn't think about the consequences. She merely _did_ it.

Exhaling sharply, she pulled on the heavy mask, the feeling of the material plastered against her skin no longer quite as alien as it had been.

She glanced up at the dusty clock, the flickering lights obscuring her vision.

7:42 PM.

Closing her eyes, she mumbled a prayer, and patted the heavy logbook that rested in the soldier's uniform.

There was no going back now. She had dug her grave. If fate chose for her to lie in it, then so be it.

XXX

Her spine ached with tension as she stood ramrod-straight, the only light in the cargo car flickering from the dusty fluorescent bulbs overhead. She glanced down at the soldier's logbook; she'd made a wise selection. The book identified him as an eighteen-year-old boy from Dusseldorf, hand-selected only two and a half months before, trained for seven weeks, and now completed the ever mundane task of guarding previously unsecured entrances.

Maintaining a motionless, silent stance, though requiring some effort and maximum patience, was decidedly to her liking. Half-heartedly, she straightened the leather overcoat, pausing for a moment to once again read over the pages. Quizzically, she raised an eyebrow, glancing at the 'expertise' segment of the short information page.

Apparently HYDRA recruited former Juvenile Detainees with intelligence quotients exceeding 160 and enjoyed dabbling in arson and bomb-manufacturing in their leisure time.

"I suppose I'll have to set the train on fire before I leave, if I really want to go with the act." She muttered to herself.

"What was that, Corporal?" The sharply-toned voice caused her to nearly jump out of her skin, never mind the HYDRA get-up.

"Reporting, sir!" she snapped, clamping her lips shut as the words escaped, her voice undeniably too high-pitched for a boy of eighteen.

The officer looked her up and down for a moment, before chuckling drily. "Excellent to see you progressing, Corporal. _Herr_ Schmidt prefers his recruits be always on their toes."

The officer lit a cigarette, leaning up against the wall a mere few centimeters away from her. She shifted uneasily, clearing her throat.

"Thank you, sir." She mumbled, taking care to mimic the man she was impersonating.

_Come on, finish your goddamn cigarette and leave!_

None the less, the man continued to dawdle, as if the world was waiting for him. She took note of his peculiar dress – civilian clothes, rather than a military uniform. An immaculately pressed pin-striped suit and shined black loafers, his black hair slicked back, his face clean-shaven. The only sign of his involvement in the organization was a small silver pin attached to the lapel of his jacket, the gruesome skull-octopus creature mirroring the larger patch on her own uniform.

"Corporal,"

Her eyes snapped back onto the man. "Sir," she barked hoarsely.

The man dropped his cigarette to the floor of the car, snuffing it out with the toe of his boot. "When you are finished with your duties here upon our arrival, see to it that you make your way to the barracks. _Herr _Schmidt has ordered that all personnel remain on base for the night. Apparently they have made significant progress and all of us must remain to be notified."

"_Jawohl_, sir." She clicked her heels together and saluted awkwardly. The man nodded in approval and exited the car, at last.

Certain that he was gone; she let out a deep sigh of relief, leaning her head back against the hard steel wall.

A night on base – surely more than enough time to do some snooping….

XXX

The swirling, effervescent shards of white spiraled through the air like thousands of nymphs taking flight, hurling themselves into the bitter cold of the gusty wind. A harsh fluorescent light cascaded along the convulsing spine of the locomotive as it curled around the mountainsides, the lights within flickering ominously as the tunnel mouth slowly swallowed it up and it began its descent underground.

Acutely aware of the sudden sputtering movement of the train, Mina felt her heart contract within her chest, her muscles tensing for action.

They were here. A steady wave of fear began to slowly trickle through her veins, inching just beneath the surface of her skin. Her throat tightened and hastily with a gloved hand, she brushed at the mask, as if discouraging tears.

This night, she could die. The last time, she'd been fortunate. Tonight, she would be dealing with a far worse monster than little Arnim Zola and his watchdogs.

Tonight, she'd be reckoning with the entire fighting force of HYDRA, concentrated into a maximum security warehouse, filled to bursting with the most powerful and scientifically advanced weaponry in the Reich. She swallowed hard, glancing down at the soldier's logbook. The soldier would have reported immediately to the central hub of the underground fortress – a heavily fortified airfield, opening out into the vast icy terrain of the Alps. She knew her every movement must be executed with the utmost precision and purpose – she had to look like she knew what she was doing, that she had a reason to do it.

"Think like a soldier," she muttered under her breath. "Not a half-wit."

An overnight on base, though impeccably convenient, did pose as a slight disadvantage. She would leave on the cargo train at dawn, arrive back in Berlin just before the morning rush, return her soldier boy's clothes, and slip off into the crowds, rather than joining the HYDRA personnel on a convoy to the Bavarian location.

If she kept silent, her chances, although narrow, were decidedly better than nothing. She couldn't risk acting out a part she knew so little about. Luckily, it seemed as if none of the soldiers thought on their own – merely mirrored their superior's movements and otherwise remained in the woodwork.

A metallic rasping echoed throughout the car and the static of an intercom.

"_Attention: All HYDRA personnel aboard the locomotive; report immediately to your barracks for report-in, and file to the airfield for further instructions. Over and out, officers, take charge of your squadrons._"

The shuffling of heavy jack-boots almost simultaneously began to echo, shaking the cars as they filed out. Exhaling sharply, she followed, filing into line as they exited the train, her fists clenched at her sides, her heart racing.

_A report-in… no, that will waste too much time. I need to get into the central laboratory – he keeps everything there_.

Her eyes flickered from side to side, the metal structure above her growing taller and brighter, the strange honey-comb tiling reminiscent of some sort of cyborgish beehive.

The blinding cobalt light of the strange artifact at Norway flickered in her mind's eye; the way he had gazed at it with such awe, such triumph and glory. His sudden departure after arriving in Berlin – naturally he would have rushed back to his laboratory to inspect the artifact. The remanding of all soldiers to the base for notification – of course, news of a ground-breaking discovery. Everything slowly fell together, like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle.

Johann would undoubtedly be in the airfield, preparing to give his men a speech – leaving his laboratory vacated, save for a few guards that could easily be eliminated. Everyone else would be in the airfield, waiting for further instructions. Leaving almost every inch of the place empty. A few guards she could handle – but not an army.

_And I won't have to._

It was brilliant. Either the gods were looking kindly in her favor, or perhaps she was being dealt the broadest stroke of luck in her life. It was so strategically perfect it was almost impossible to comprehend.

And yet, it all seemed to be falling into place on its own accord.

Her heart jumped as the line halted suddenly.

But of course, her uncle was no fool. There would be guards – she wasn't about to be getting a free ticket in and out.

She flexed her fingers in the heavy gloves. Six years of grueling training, finally to be paid off.

A loud alarm sounded once over the intercom system, and in throngs the soldiers broke off, scattering in opposite directions towards the barracks.

She opened up her logbook, glancing at the mock-up blueprint of the base. She traced a gloved fingertip along a winding passage. The laboratory was at the midsection of the facility, facing out towards the mountains.

Inhaling sharply, she silently made her way through the throngs of soldiers, winding ever deeper into the metal abyss.

The steel corridors were short and curved sharply, no single hallway straight or with a defined destination. She felt her stomach clench as she sub-consciously likened it to the twisting intestines of some sort of reptilian beast. Keeping to the shadows was impossible; hulking guards loomed in the alcoves, monstrous rifles slung across their chests, their heavy breathing audible even through the thick masks.

Several higher-ups marched past her, talking quietly amongst themselves, pausing only to cast deep scowls toward her.

Lowering her head, she shuffled on, her heartbeat eerily steady, given the circumstances.

Farther and farther deeper into the facility; the ever-twisting and turning halls creeping closer and closer in on her, the deep sense of claustrophobia almost overwhelming. Globules of sweat trickled along her brow, her breaths heavy.

Glancing down at the logbook, only a few more turns remained. None of the entrances were well-marked, all copies of the previous; large, curved metal frames, the broad doors secured by heavily secured locks, and each guarded by a pair of big masked soldiers.

The laboratory, like all the other chambers, lacked all clear definition; merely a slightly larger set of metal double-doors, securely locked and guarded.

Only, these guards did seem to look rather bigger. Instinctively, she lowered her head.

"_Halt!"_

She stopped dead, straightening to look at the men. She bit her lip, as if the sudden force would calm her breathing. Swallowing hard, she thrust her arms into the air, in awkward salute.

The soldiers brandished their guns, staring blankly at her. One stepped forward, lowering his rifle.

"All personnel have been remanded to the airfield, Corporal." The officer said curtly. "What business do you have in the North Wing?"

"I – I have orders from _Herr_ Schmidt, sir."

"Do you have evidence of those orders?"

"_Nein _sir. _Herr_ Schmidt merely sent me to fetch a flask of Schnapps."

Mentally, she smacked herself. _A flask of Schnapps? Really? That's the best you can do? Do you want to die, girl? _Well… it was realistic. The man drank like a fiend.

The officer eyed her quizzically for a moment.

"You are lying."

"About _Herr_ Schmidt's drinking habits, sir?"

The officer inhaled sharply, as if offended by her response. "Papers."

She stared at him blankly. The officer rolled his eyes beneath the mask.

"Identification papers, _dummkopf.__Mach Schnell_, lest you want to be skinned alive for lateness. _Herr_ Schmidt prefers punctuality."

Hastily she retrieved the logbook, the other soldier snatching it from her grasp. He flicked through it lazily.

"Helmut Braun is your name?"

"_Jawohl_."

"Convicted of arson twice in the last year?"

The other guard let out a raspy chuckle. "_Herr_ Schmidt wanted experienced candidates for the flame-throwers."

The officer glanced at him briefly before handing back the book. "A flask of Schnapps, you say?"

"_Jawohl_."

His eyes darted from side to side. "I will get it for you."

"But then who will guard the door?"

The officer turned to look at her levelly. Instinctively, she shrugged beneath the heavy uniform.

"_Herr_ Schmidt is waiting. Although I'd be happy to notify him that it is you who has delayed me in carrying out my orders, sir."

The officer's eyes narrowed beneath his mask, and she could almost guess that his face was twisting into a scowl. He turned toward the door, motioning for the other soldier to help him turn the lock. A heavy, grating sound emanated from the heavy steel door as it opened. Within, she could barely see the steel maw of what lay before her.

"Go. And hurry up." The officer snapped, before stepping back into position.

She nodded and stiffly entered the laboratory, the heavy door sliding closed behind her. Almost unconsciously, she collapsed against the closed entrance, sighing deeply with relief. She stood there a few moments, surveying her surroundings.

From the outside, the laboratory seemed small and one-dimensional, but once through the entrance, it opened up into a massive, cave-like chamber, with high, arched ceilings bedecked with maps and tapestries and blueprints. Several worktables, their surfaces littered with glittering metal prototypes and weather-beaten books and tools. At the corner of the room, an old turn-table, several vinyls neatly stacked beside it.

Slowly, she inched toward the center of the room, staring about in a sort of awed trance. To finally be at the very heart of her Uncle's work, to finally see the place where spent almost all of his time, working and studying and experimenting – it was almost overwhelming to the senses. To finally be privy to _something_, albeit merely a room, but something tangible and visible – it was almost impossible to comprehend.

And yet, her time there would be short.

_Don't dawdle; get in and get out and stay unnoticed. Look around and leave – and don't forget the damned liquor._

Her breaths grew shallow and more ragged with every step she took, her mind aching to find something but what it wanted to find, she couldn't perceive.

The work area opened out into a spacious alcove, the back wall almost completely taken up by a monstrous panoramic window, giving way to a breath-taking view of the mountains and their never-ending white. A broad metal desk lay before it, a few books and folios, several randomly scattered paper-weights – and a small silver flask, emblazoned with the strange insignia.

Gingerly, she picked up the flask and slipped it into the large front pocket of the uniform, along with the logbook. _A few more moments of looking around – then out_.

A soft humming buzzed from the far right of the room, hidden in a shallow alcove. A large mass of coiling metal wires, cold and dark and lifeless. Yet, a soft, ethereal blue light seemed to radiate from it, pulsing in a sort of irregular heartbeat, mystical in its rhythm.

It was almost mesmerizing, teasing her with its flickering tones, beckoning her to come forth, absorbing every ounce of her focus.

Slowly, deliberately, she stepped forward; she reached a gloved hand to her face, gingerly peeling back the heavy leather mask, sweat-soaked curls pasted to her scalp. The humming seemed to grow louder now, the light shining brighter and more vibrant.

Without thinking, her hand grasped the latch of the machine, turning it until a loud click, followed by soft hissing noise echoed through the room. Pulling upward, she felt the mechanisms release, and the heavy metal holder slid free of its hulking prison.

The light was blinding now, the object within a blur, the edges hazy and undefined, the humming low and methodic, steady and unwavering. Coupled with the sound now, were whispers, fast and incoherent, like the waters of a bubbling creek, babbling languages of ancient lore and fragments of long ago forgotten prophecies. And all the while, the light pulsated brightly, threatening to consume her, begging her to lose herself in its blue abyss.

She could have stared into it forever, swallowed whole by its ethereal beauty and enigma.

Only the brash interruption of the officer's voice – _the officer_ – the guards, they were still waiting.

And yet, she was so reluctant to let go.

"What's taking you so long, boy? _Mach Schnell_, son of a bitch! _Herr_ Schmidt will shoot us all if he finds you dawdling!"

Her eyes never once moved from the light. "I cannot find the flask." Her voice was a hollow shell, eerily entranced.

"Well hurry up!" the officer's voice was swallowed by the humming and the monotonous voices; it was almost as if they were speaking to _her_, addressing her personally. Their ringing tones were garbled; the fragments of sentences blurring together.

"_Touch – touch the cube – hold the Tesseract – few survive – only the chosen – the chosen one – only he – can bear its weight – child of Odin – prove your worth – behold the treasure."_

It was a complete mess of vague nonsense, and yet, she felt compelled, as if by some higher authority, to give in to the voices, to touch the cube.

Slowly, she reached into the metal holder, the tips of her gloved fingers just barely grazing the glowing surface –

Light exploded into the room, temporarily blinding her, the force of the object's touch against her fingers throwing her across the room.

The cube still rested in her gloved palm, pulsating and humming irregularly, fast and slow, fast and slow. And amid the ever-present garble of voices, one sounded clearly in her mind, its tones rich and ethereal.

"_Child of Odin,"_

Shards of broken images – pictures, newsreels, visions and dreams of heroes long-forgotten, of people and memories and thoughts and deaths and pasts and lives – flew across her eyes, a mesh of color and movement and broken speech.

"_Stand, bearer, for you have been chosen."_

Automatically she stood, her movements stiff and jerky, as if forced. The images swirled about her now at rapid speed – ancient warriors of Norse lore – metal-clad soldiers wielding glowing blue blades and lightning bolts, seven-headed sea monsters and wolf-like gods.

"Why?" The word was barely audible, her eyes wide, her heart beating furiously within her chest. "Why me?"

A roaring cackle sounded, the images swirling faster, the light pulsating so brightly that white spots danced before her eyes, the blue light scampering across her arm, winding its thick tendrils about her fingers, working its way up, wrapping around her torso, climbing towards her neck –

The heavy grating of the metal door sliding open jarred her from her daze, the officer sticking his masked head around the door – but she didn't care – she didn't care if she died, for the power coursing within her – it was so rich and fulfilling and mesmerizing – she could bask in its light forever and be satiated.

"Hey – what are you doing? Get the hell out of here boy!" The guard advanced on her, his gun brandished, but she lashed out at him, her gloved fist, swallowed by the blue light, caught in his jaw, the blow sending him flying across the room, sparks dancing about his face, tiny bolts of lightning dancing across the material of his mask, his eyes wide beneath the lenses.

Her eyes darted to the door, the other guard standing in shock, his gun clattering to the floor. For a moment, he merely stared, dumbstruck, at his fallen comrade, before sprinting off in the opposite direction.

A few moments passed, the light never once dying, and the shrill metallic screeching of an alarm rang against the metal walls, red lights flashing in the outer corridors.

And yet, she did not run. She stared down at the cube in her palm, the deep blue light ebbing and flowing across her body, the broken voices whispering in her ears and seeping into every crevice of her brain, dancing across her eyes feverishly.

Somewhere, she knew, a part of her was screaming at her to run, to get the hell out and flee for her life. And yet, her feet stayed firmly planted, her body and brain disconnected from each other.

Never in her life had she experienced such an awesome feeling of power, of exhilaration.

She never wanted it to end.

XXX

Central Airfield – HYDRA BASE

He ran a gloved hand through his fabricated dark hair, blowing a cloud of smoke into the chill night air, seeping in through the open runway of the airfield. Zola stood beside him, feverishly wiping at his specs. He glared down at the little scientist, rolling his long, black cigarette holder between his lips.

"Must you fidget so, Dr. Zola?"

His assistant glanced up at him briefly before lowering his head, obediently placing his glasses back on to the bridge of his nose.

"My apologies, _Mein_ _Herr." _

Schmidt nodded in approval, straightening out the lapels of his heavy leather overcoat, carefully brushing off the HYDRA patch that adorned his left shoulder. The mass of troops that stood before him was only just beginning to fill the airfield, still more soldiers filing into line, their rifles stiffly held at port arms, their faces cold and emotionless. Just as he liked them.

As far as the naked eye was concerned, these men could have been clones, identical in every aspect. And yet, he knew, without so much a second glance that beneath the black leather and glistening metal armor, every single one of these men possessed more intelligence, more finesse, more power and superiority than any perfect Aryan Hitler could conjure.

Before him stood an army like no other – prepared to decimate every hostile force on earth with merely a single order. Over a thousand troops at his disposal.

He blew a cloud of grayish-blue smoke, watching it hang suspended in the air. With the tesseract's power now successfully stabilized, the entire world was only mere inches away from his grasp.

So close he could almost taste it; the air pure and untainted by disgusting mundane kind.

As the last of the troops filed in, he flicked the cigarette butt to the ground, snuffing it out with the toe of his boot. Casting a cursory glance at Zola, he passed his cigarette holder to the little scientist, who dutifully slipped it into the pocket of his jacket, in turn holding a small portfolio of papers before his superior.

Schmidt glanced down at them – the precisely crafted speech he had dictated to Zola only mere hours before in preparation for the occasion. He glared down at it now, waving a gloved hand dismissively.

"That won't be necessary, Arnim." He said stiffly, probing at his jaw. Zola nodded quickly, hurriedly tucking the folder away. Mentally, he smacked himself. Schmidt was a gifted orator – how foolish of him to underestimate him so. He heard his superior clear his throat rather loudly, and instinctively, the little scientist lowered his head, the booming nature that Schmidt's normally placid, measured voice would soon take on, already frightening him into submission.

The squadron leaders called their platoons to attention, the soldier arms shooting up into the air in staunch salute, a thousand voices ringing in unison, "_Hail HYDRA_!"

Zola watched in silence as Schmidt stepped slowly toward his men, his eyes slowly scanning his intent audience, his gloved hands clasped firmly behind his back. He nodded very slightly, as if quite pleased with his regime. Inhaling sharply, Zola knew he was preparing to begin a very dramatic, gripping speech. He almost smiled; it never ceased to amaze him, how far Johann Schmidt had come, with or without the aid of the Führer. A man who had risen out of the dark depths of poverty, building himself up, creating a godly, awesome figure of extraordinary ability. Indeed, Hitler had selected the perfect man for his research division, a born leader.

Schmidt waited a few moments, as if allowing for the suspense to build. He cleared his throat quietly, looking out at his men stoically.

"Gentlemen,"

"Hail HYDRA!"

Schmidt smirked slightly at the response. Morale levels were indeed soaring – excellent. A prosperous army was a confident one.

He opened his mouth to speak again, his deep azure orbs drilling into every one of the soldiers, as if speaking to them personally. And yet… suddenly, he was cut off, the words not even allowed to escape his lips.

The shrill shrieking of an alarm; the blinding red lights – they echoed about the cavernous airfield, bouncing off the metal walls and setting even the hardest soldier into a nervous stance.

Admittedly, Zola jumped at the sudden cacophony of noise, the red lights blinding against the huge lenses of his specs. Nervously he glanced up at his superior, the expression upon the synthetic mask undoubtedly lesser than that upon Schmidt's true face – but never the less, the look of imminent fury in his eyes was more than enough to set the scientist on edge.

He watched as his deep blue eyes slowly turned to look down at him, Schmidt's teeth grating together, his shoulders shaking with restrained anger.

"Dr. Zola," the tension in his voice was obvious, his teeth strongly gritted. Zola swallowed hard, immediately looking away.

"I – I have no idea, sir." He murmured, his own voice shaking with fear. He watched fearfully as his superior ever so stiffly reached a gloved hand to his jaw, probing at it methodically, as if every emotion tingeing the man's blood was slowly, laboriously being poured into this simple task.

He waited for a moment, expecting an order, but none came. Schmidt lowered his hand and straightened, stalking off of the platform upon which they stood, the sea of soldiers parting like the waves of the red sea, _he_ the macabre portrayal of Moses, the fury radiating from every inch of his form.

Jarred from his momentary daze, Zola hurried to catch up, breaking into a nervous jog in order to compete with his superior's lengthy strides.

The alarms shrieked, the red lights flaring everywhere, frenzies of guards skittering out of the way, eager to avoid their master's ire.

Zola managed a few words, breathing heavily, the sudden exercise too much for his rather plump physique.

"_Herr – Herr _Schmidt, what – what is going on, sir?"

"I could ask you the same, Arnim."

Zola wiped at his brow feverishly. "_Mein_ _Herr_, every possible entrance into the facility, every chamber and laboratory was securely guarded – not one was left unmanned. This cannot possibly be a break-in; perhaps one of technicians set off the alarms by accident –"

"_Herr _Schmidt!" a stalky, masked guard rushed up to them, not even bothering to salute. "Sir, please, it is urgent!"

Schmidt cracked his jaw, resuming his methodic probing. "It would seem so, would it not, Lieutenant?" he answered, his voice peculiarly calm. But it soon took on a dry, sardonic tone. "After all, my men are _specially _trained to operate such state-of-the-art security systems, such as the ones installed in this facility."

The officer lowered his head grimly. Schmidt scowled, gritting his teeth.

"Speak."

"_Mein Herr_, my partner and I were assigned to guard the entrance of your main laboratory, assigned to guard the artifact you procured from Norway. Everything proceeded schedule until one of the younger officers requested clearance to enter – he said he was fetching something for you, said he had orders from you, yourself, sir." The man's breaths grew shaky. "My partner is superior to me; he cleared the boy and let him in – he was gone for a peculiarly long time. My partner went in to investigate and – and … there was an explosion of light and – the boy – he sent him flying across the room, knocked him unconscious. I – I tried to do away with him but – he seemed possessed – I – I had to sound the alarm!"

Zola watched as his superior eyed the man levelly, his breaths measured and slow.

"You have left the tesseract unguarded?"

The officer seemed confused. "The what, sir? I have no idea what it was – but I could not defend myself alone and someone had to sound the alarm."

"You could have defended yourself, Lieutenant. You merely feared for your life, and considered it to be of greater worth than the very artifact that will bring HYDRA to supreme rule. And, you have now left it in the hands of a rogue soldier."

Zola lowered his head as Schmidt reached out a gloved hand, forcefully gripping the officer's masked face, staring into his eyes.

"Do you think that what you have done was a gallant act of bravery, Lieutenant?"

"Sir I – what else could I have done?" the officer's voice rose an octave.

Schmidt almost smiled at him, and with a loud cracking noise, he twisted the officer's neck, suffocating him immediately.

Without a word, Zola watched as his superior loosened his grip, letting the dead soldier fall to the floor. Wiping his gloved hands, he glanced down at the little scientist.

"Don't look so piqued, Arnim. Stupidity is what ended this man's life, not cruelty or inhumanness on my accord." He straightened, sighing slightly. "And as per usual, I am left to investigate myself; clearly I have not trained my men adequately enough to think for themselves."


	10. Cold Indifference

**Presenting to you, my esteemed Ladies and Gentlemen, Chapter ten of Athena. In a manner, this is the second part of Chapter 9, which upon exceeding twenty pages on my word document, I begrudgingly decided to put up as it was. And, well… I guess you guys liked it Speaking of which, y'all know how hard it is to write continuous fan fictions, don't you? God, I need to get out more…**

**Thanks so much to Kukapetal , Blackbird71, and Musicwolf7 for their super-morale-boosting reviews!**

**So, anywho… enjoy Part 2 of Chapter 9, officially known as Chapter 10! … I think….**

**Regards, and as always, Review! Review and you get your name mentioned in big Caps Lock! Everyone wants that right? Oh and… I'll kidnap Hugo Weaving and the only way he'll be able to go back to Australia is if he dresses up in full Johann Schmidt regalia and swears on his life that he WILL return to act in the next addition to the Captain America: The First Avenger film as the Red Skull and will act amazingly for all of us fan girls/boys (although… I'm assuming it's all girls – not to sound sexist or anything but… well… *awkward silence*)**

**Now, seriously, doesn't everyone want to meet him in person? I'm drooling over my keyboard at the thought of it…. Oh Johann… oh you and your… red amazingness…. Aaaaaaaauuuuuuggggghhhhh….**

**Ahem. Anywho. On with the show! And Free Hugo Weavings/Johann Schmidts/ Red Skulls For Everybody Who Reviews!**

**~ J.B**

**Small side note: I'm taking the cue from several reviewers and using this chapter as more of a character-development chapter, rather than an action, climactic chapter (don't worry, plenty of action to come in the future, I promise ). So, here I'm focusing on both Johann's and Mina's reactions and emotions toward the events that occurred in the last chapter (as well as in the seventh, as a change of pace), as well as focusing on their own… 'Inner demons'. **

**Translations from Norwegian:**

_**Jeg beklager – **_**I am sorry.**

_**Jeg vet – **_**I know.**

HYDRA Base – the Alps

1942

Her skin, porcelain-white, was almost pearlescent in the harsh white of the test chamber. Her caramel-colored curls pooled around her shoulders, an intricate web of wiring coiling about her neck and collar-bones, spreading in thin, alien tendrils climbing down her arms and torso. Her breaths were shaky and irregular; her frame quaked as she exhaled. Small, spherical, sensory patches dotted the surface of her partially bare flesh, trembling and pulsating as they picked up her heartbeat.

Silently, he noted how angelic her beauty was, amid the cold and artificial environment. Expelling a cloud of thick smoke, he probed gingerly at his mask, realizing the irony of his observation.

He wasn't at all angry at her– something that managed to surprise him slightly. After all, the girl had nearly gotten herself killed twice now, expressly disobeying his orders and making a complete and utter nuisance out of herself. And yet, for some reason, he felt almost disinclined to punish her.

Rather, it was the torrent of questions that now plagued his mind that he was most consumed by. Uncertainty was an emotion he rarely if ever experienced now, and the feeling was twisting at his insides, gnawing at his heart with an unrelenting fervency. Thinking in itself had become a laborious effort, his energies dwindling down to the faintest flicker.

He rolled his cigarette-holder between his lips, closing his eyes for a moment, as if the mundane action would somehow clear his muddled brain. And yet, the visions would not leave his eyes, emblazoned upon his retinas in the most vivid detail.

Like some raving lunatic, she had stood wild-eyed and completely disoriented, overcome by a strong, consuming trance. When she spoke, her own, true voice was a thin, wispy film, lost amid the multi-layered, rich and ethereal tones of someone – some being, some strange deity – clearly of divine lineage.

And the tesseract – how it had rested in her palm, all but a thin glove separating it from her bare flesh. Years of tireless research had proved that it had been over a millennium since any single individual, moreover one of mortal ancestry, had been able to physically _bare _the cube, to experience the weight of its power, to be able to manifest that power within them – without being instantaneously consumed.

And yet, there stood a wretched snip of a child, holding it up so simply and effortlessly, as if it were merely a useless piece of plastic.

Trembling, his gloved fingers dug fervently into the silicon material lining his jawbone, a sudden twinge of envy jarring his frame. Admittedly, he grew vexed at having allowed himself to become overtaken by such a childish characteristic as jealousy, but he couldn't help it.

Why Mina? Why someone so inexperienced and with so little knowledge of the artifact anyhow? She'd only known what the tesseract was for perhaps 48 hours, if that, and the name alone was hardly information of real substance. It was such an enigmatic object, constantly changing and altering its properties – it had taken years of devoted studying for him to have come this far in understanding its capabilities.

And yet, it had chosen her.

The notion mystified him. And yet, the image played over in his head, as if a broken newsreel.

XXX

Several hours earlier…

From Mina's Perspective

It was as if she were being sucked into a dreamscape – completely and utterly disconnected from everything that was rapidly occurring around her.

The guards flooding in – orders being shouted, guns cocked and aimed, the spray of bullets ricocheting off the metal surfaces of the laboratory, the cacophony of gunfire and the shrill ringing of metal striking metal – it all seemed so distant, close enough for her to see with clarity, but too far away to do any harm.

She knew distinctly that she was in danger – and yet, she didn't move, didn't want to move. She didn't feel compelled to run, compelled to defend herself.

Nothing seemed to hold any meaning – any response at all felt almost superfluous. If only she closed her eyes – it would be just her and the divine, mesmerizing light of the cube, cocooning her with its warmth and power, separating her from life itself, suspending her animation.

As long as that beautiful jewel remained in her grasp – she had no need to fear anything, no need to think, no need to feel, no need to exist. This small object – it was life and death, destruction and renewal.

There _was _nothing else.

Only the sudden removal of this object was enough to jar her from the powerful pull – long metal clamps glinted in the eerie light, the muffled shouts behind an alien-looking mask echoing off the walls –

Tendrils of cobalt light shot down her arms, coiling like tensed serpents, sending the masked guard flying into the metal wall, sparks flickering madly against the material of his uniform, his limbs convulsing with the strength of the electrocution.

The clamps clattered across the floor, the tesseract rattling against their iron grip, still pulsing with vivid light.

Slowly, she glanced down at her open palms, leftover sparks still surging about their now empty surface.

Her head grew heavy, her surroundings blurring together as her knees buckled beneath her, as if her body was only now realizing its weight. The security, the power… it spilled from her body, as if blood pouring from thousands of open wounds.

The steel floor rose up to meet her, her brain slamming against the wall of her skull, a sickening wave of nausea overwhelming her, her throat tightening, her stomach churning.

Her eyes flickered, her sight lapsing in and out of clarity.

Only the pristine shine of SS-issued jack-boots, looming over her, shone clearly amid the blurred images before her. Distantly, she heard his voice, a low, grating rasp that sent chills coursing down her spinal cord.

"Get her up." His tone was flat.

Nodding obediently, two guards rushed to either side of her, hesitating only a moment, both pausing to glance at the state of their counterpart.

"_Mach schnell_!" there was a certain measure of venom in his words, his teeth gritted, his gloved fists clenched at his sides. One of the guards jumped slightly, but his partner was quick to oblige, yanking her up by the shoulder, the other stepping in at her other side.

She felt the toes of her heavy combat boots dragging against the floor, the leather material of the uniform suddenly feeling as if it weighed a thousand pounds. Her body trembled within the confines of the leather padding, a certain feeling of fear trickling through her veins. She cast a nervous glance toward the tesseract, still quivering and pulsing within its iron holder.

His gaze followed hers, and with some irritation, he barked an order at yet another masked guard, who scurried off to carry out the task of retrieving the cube, carefully placing it back within its holding device. She stared for a moment as the blinding blue glow dwindled down to only the slightest of light, her body involuntarily leaning forward in the soldiers' grasp, the tesseract's absorbing pull drawing her towards it.

Her shoulders were wrenched back almost instantaneously, her teeth gnashing down against her tongue painfully. A single bead of blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, mixing with the sweat that soaked her face. Breathing heavily, she looked upwards, her eyes meeting the piercing azure tone of his irises.

Her eyes darted about, seeking even the slightest trace of emotion in his face, but there was none. She needed something – anything to confirm his feelings – anger, disappointment; she gladly would have taken his rage over the blank and lifeless stare he now seemed to be directing toward her. It was almost as if she was nothing more than an obstruction in his path of site – and that he was trying in vain to look straight through her.

Tears brimmed in her eyes, her throat dry. _Say something. Do something. Anything._

She could feel his gaze boring into her, examining her as if she were merely a specimen under a microscope.

Her lips trembled, her entire body shaking beneath the grip of her captors. Anguish or sadness, fear or anger… she didn't know what to feel or what to think. Everything was muddled – hazy and undefined – worlds apart from the firm security of the cube, the strong sensation of reassurance.

"_Jeg beklager_." The Norwegian rolled off her tongue thickly, gasped rather than spoken. As a young child, she'd suffered through hours of Norse studies, her uncle insisting that she master the language of the culture he so strongly revered.

His eyes flickered slightly, as if begrudgingly focusing back onto her. His lips twitched slightly, the ghost of a scowl.

"_Jeg vet_." He replied flatly.

He inhaled sharply, pausing for a moment to further examine her crumpled form. He stepped forward, the toe of his boot mere inches away from her own. He reached out with a gloved hand, his lips slightly parted, as if to speak further.

Subconsciously, she flinched, expecting him to lash out, but he didn't. His long, gloved fingers ghosted over her cheek, before cupping her face into his palm. She braced herself as he gripped her shoulder with his free hand, dipping in close enough that she could feel his breath against her ear, her skin prickling beneath his grasp.

Switching to their native German, he added drily, "Such a pity it is, that presently, I do not find myself in a forgiving mood."

The words were spoken with such a cold indifference – like lethal points, plunging into her heart. She felt sick, unable to breathe, her heart pounding irregularly, threatening to rip through her chest.

Here then, was not rage, not anger, not even slight disapproval.

There was nothing.

The cold, almost mocking tone of his voice left her heart wrenched, tears brimming in her eyes, threatening to spill.

The control, the security of the cube in her palm – it was gone, and she was defenseless. Like a small child, praying for forgiveness; rewarded with bitterness.

And _he_ knew it.

She watched dazedly as he turned on his heel, a duo of masked guards scurrying to open the doors for him. As the massive metal doors swung open, a small man with a funny looking bowtie scampered in, a folio tucked under one arm and a pair of spectacles in his free hand.

"Herr Schmidt!"

His voice was shaky, his hands trembling as he fussed with his glasses. She watched as Johann stopped before him, towering over the little scientist to such the extent that he was forced to look down in order to meet his eyes.

But the little scientist was no longer looking at him – he looked on, gazing with an intent curiosity – at _her_.

"What – what has happened here, sir?"

She watched as Johann cast a cursory glance over his shoulder, his eyes briefly meeting hers. There was a cold glint in them. He reached a gloved hand to his jaw, probing at it methodically.

"Remove her to the North Wing; the isolation cells shall work nicely. Instruct the technicians to have our testing facilities prepared within the hour." He nodded to one of the guards, who scurried off to carry out the order.

He turned back to look at the little scientist. He sighed heavily, as if annoyed by the man's abrupt interruption. "Come along, Dr. Zola. We have much to… discuss."

Silently, Johann preceded him, head held erect in an almost cockish manner. Hurriedly placing his specs upon the bridge of his nose, the scientist scurried forth to catch up.

"_No!"_

Her captors jumped, sparks of electricity flaring off the surface of her arms, glowing tendrils curling around the tips of her fingers. Static crackled in her hair, her eyes blazing blue. When she spoke, her voice was richly layered: a wispy, ethereal soprano, but at the same time deep and menacing, almost grating in nature.

The fury radiated off her body in blazing sheets, the fire searing along the plains of her shoulders like rainwater.

Turning his head slightly, gloved hand still caressing his jawbone, he gave her an inquisitive glance.

"_Look at me_." Her teeth were gritted, every word sharply annunciated, her entire frame trembling with restrained anger, begging to be released in a torrent.

Almost deliberately, he very slowly turned to face her, breathing sharply, his broad chest heaving with the inhalation. He raised an eyebrow in mock question, his mouth pursed.

Her fists clenched at her sides, sparks still running freely across her body, she opened her mouth to speak, her breaths ragged and shallow, as if strained.

"You will not leave. Not until you answer my questions." She stared at him levelly, watching his eyes.

He came forward, allowing her to look directly into his eyes.

"Really?" he answered quietly. "And why, pray tell, should I feel inclined to fulfill your request? After all, don't you consider it almost unfair, that I should allow myself to be interrogated, when in fact, you are far more deserving of such?

"I broke in." she answered quietly. "What more is there to elaborate on?"

The blue of his irises seemed to turn to ice, the black leather of his glove a blur before her eyes, followed by a searing pain across her face. Her head snapped back, the tears she had been holding back threatening to gush with the onset of the sting. She watched his lips tug upward, as if in a satisfied smirk, before turning back to leave.

She lashed out with her fist, catching his arm, a blinding explosion of cobalt light jolting him forward. Almost instantly, he recovered his balance, but she quickly backed off as he reeled on her, electrical currents crackling off of her body, every inch of her frame tensed for attack.

Just like all those long, tedious afternoons spent in the basement, sparring blindly, constantly pausing to finesse her stance, her speed.

"_You make the Americans look like dancers." _He'd once pointed out, lecturing her on her clumsiness with her throws.

Every punch, every kick she'd ever thrown – no matter how flawless on paper, she'd never once been able to hit him. While she ineptly dodged his _perfectly _executed movements, tripping over herself and winding up with more than few ugly bruises, _he _artfully caught her every punch, easily evading her advances before mercilessly counterattacking – and of course, looking every bit the well-seasoned combatant while he did so.

The leftover energy coursed through her, every muscle in her body writhing with it, longing to feel the tesseract's presence once again.

Surely such a sensation wasn't healthy.

Her eyes narrowed to slits, and angrily she waited for him to advance. But he didn't.

Again, rather than lashing out, rather than expressing his anger, he did nothing. He merely turned to face her, breathing perhaps a bit heavier, silently assessing her actions with an expression of deep intrigue. It was almost as if she were one of his prototypes, and that all of this was merely another trial session.

The lack of perceivable emotion unsettled her beyond belief.

He wasn't acting in the manner of her uncle; fiercely protective, quick to scold or lecture, immediately perfecting even the slightest flaw.

Rather, he now portrayed the scientist, carefully examining her every move as if she were some strange specimen, carefully evading close contact, as if she were poisoned.

But… of course, it did make sense.

It was hardly considered natural for any human being to be able to manifest within themselves electrical currents.

But why then, could she? What was this tesseract thing? And why did she so vehemently crave its presence?

Her stomach churned, her head growing dizzy with the torrent of unanswered questions that swirled about her conscience. That was, after all, the reason she was here. For answers.

And all too often, she had been forced to go without them.

"Tell me what the tesseract is." Her voice was shaky, almost pleading. "Please tell me what it is."

His eyes flickered slightly, his expression hardening. "The tesseract is by nature of the utmost volatility, and as a result of that, it must be an artifact of the utmost confidentiality. Only the top HYDRA operatives are privy to its abilities. You were, most disgracefully I might add, a breach in its security. But none the less, one that shall be dealt with appropriately."

He turned to face the last few guards that remained looming in the back corners of the laboratory, uncertainly awaiting further commands.

"Are our testing facilities prepared?"

"_Jawohl_, Herr Schmidt." One of the senior officers barked.

He nodded slightly. "See to it that she is tranquilized."

"I am not finished."

He cast a cursory glance her way, a certain impatience in his eyes now. But he said nothing.

In a blur, the events at Norway scattered across her vision…

_Row upon row upon row of masked soldiers, their arms bolt-upright in staunch salute, their voices robotic in nature as they chanted simultaneously, 'Hail HYDRA'._

_The blinding cobalt light; the hungry expression in his eyes; the trigger of a gun begin pulled, an innocent man falling dead._

Was this the true nature of HYDRA, then? How could what her uncle modestly described as a handful of Nazi-employed scientists have escalated into a full-fledged army, a cultish following of masked, faceless and lifeless creatures, all willing to fall onto their knees before their beloved leader.

Who even was their leader, if not Johann? If not Johann, who was _his_ leader? The Führer? And the tesseract – she'd witnessed its powers firsthand, but what purpose would it serve for the Reich? If it had anything to do with the Reich, at all.

"You killed a man." She whispered.

She watched as his eyes widened slightly, as if genuinely surprised at her inquiry. But quickly he resumed composure, his face once again hardening into an unreadable mask.

"We are at war. People die."

"He was innocent."

"_People_ die. Not just soldiers."

"And that justifies your actions?"

His eyes narrowed, his mouth twisting into a scowl. "I am not at the leisure to answer all of your petty questions; neither should I feel any compulsion to do so. If making a nuisance out of yourself was what you set out to do, I must congratulate you, you've exceeded your goals. Of course, now, you must be dealt with accordingly."

He cocked his head slightly, and almost instantly, the guards were on her.

Of course, it shouldn't have taken many, but since they were all still rather shocked at the earlier events –

Lashing out with a blaze of cobalt light, she sent the first two careening back into the far wall, their guns clattering to the ground. The next round was on her in a matter of moments, surrounding her but wisely maintaining a distance, weapons cocked. Slowly they inched forward; kicking out with her leg, she knocked the first two weapons free of their wielders' grasps. Dipping backwards, she whipped out with her fist, willing a torrent of blue electrical currents to erupt from her fingertips, shocking the other two into unconsciousness. Only three more remained, and they advanced on her from every angle, their guns cocked and aimed.

Eyes narrowing, she felt the tesseract's power coursing in her blood, boiling with unrestrained energy. Slowly she raised her hands, splaying her fingers, feeling the exhilaration tingling beneath her flesh. Closing her eyes, she felt – _knew_ – it would only take moments for that explosion of fire, when the power and strength manifested within her and filled her with a feeling should couldn't begin to comprehend.

It was fleeting – lasting only mere moments.

The explosion of fire and electricity, the heat searing the hairs on her flesh, the wild energy that set her senses alight.

The soldiers were blown backwards, clattering against the metal floor like their weapons before them.

And yet, the power continued to flow from her, uncontrolled, unwilled, like blood spilling from a fresh wound –

And then, as if a candle flame burnt down to the wick, it was gone.

Winking from existence like an extinguished spark, she collapsed to the ground, her eyes rolling back into her head as the toll of the expelled energy finally hit her body with the full extent of its force.

In the distance she could hear her uncle's voice, quiet and pensive in manner, curtly calling out another order.

More masked guards – at least seven of them – bolted into the laboratory, six of them heavily armed with a single one brandishing a long syringe, the sharp point of a needle glinting in the blaring red light of the alarms that still sounded out in the corridor.

She didn't bother flinching as the needle penetrated her skin – she had no energy left. It was almost as if the very last breath of life had been taken from her, and all that was left now was an empty shell.

Her eyes flickered closed and the blackness set in. She was almost grateful for it.

XXX

Present

Told from Johann's Perspective

"_Herr_ Schmidt," Zola's voice echoed off of the metal walls, ringing in his ears. Probing at his mask, he cast a cold glare over his shoulder at the little scientist, vexed at having his contemplations interrupted.

"Do you find it necessary to make a nuisance out of yourself, Arnim." He muttered, lowering his head into his hands, running his fingers through his fabricated hair. He sighed as he watched Zola shrink out of the corner of his eye. The man was spineless, no better than a whipped puppy.

One common misconception that he found immensely irksome – so many of the Gestapo had branded him as little more than a 'lowly scientist', defenseless and useless, good only for testing lab rats and toying with chemistry sets.

He rather liked to consider himself as one of the revolutionaries to prove that popular stereotype wrong. Unfortunately, Zola stood to be the epitome of it.

"What do you want, Dr. Zola?"

Skittishly, the little doctor crept out of his hiding spot pressed against the wall and silently made his way toward the leather chaise that Johann occupied.

"The results are back from testing, _mein Herr_."

"And?"

Zola lowered his head. "We found no traces of electrical currents in her bloodstream."

Johann straightened in his seat, level with the scientist's eyes. "You found no abnormalities?"

Silently, he shook his head.

"Nothing whatsoever?"

"Nothing, sir. Her resting heart-rate is normal; her blood samples were completely clean. The only tests left to run are vision and physical exertion tests, and we cannot complete those until she regains consciousness."

Sighing, he stood up, straightening the hem of his uniform. For a moment, he paused, gazing intently through the glass window that divided the small observation room from the test chamber.

Her body strapped to a metal operating table, Mina lay in a drug-induced coma, her physical state monitored by several machines via intravenous sensors. Allowing his eyes to glaze over for a moment, he watched the rhythmic rising and falling of the needle that methodically illustrated her heartbeat along a length of paper.

Normal. Not too slow, not too fast. Utterly consistent, uniform. It was maddening.

Any semblance of a change, even the smallest discrepancy – anything would be a welcome discovery.

And yet, everything about her, physically at least, was completely normal.

Who knew, perhaps further testing would reveal that she could now spot the proverbial needle in the haystack at first glance, or perhaps incinerate it with a well-aimed glare that somehow managed to shoot fire – but he sincerely doubted it.

Of course, as much as he didn't want to admit it, he should have expected such results. He'd be a fool to believe that an artifact as complex as the tesseract would provide clear-cut answers when subjected to any kind of studying.

But one would certainly think that there would be some sort of visible difference in a human who now suddenly had the abilities to manifest highly volatile electrical currents within themselves, much less wield them to their own advantage.

He scowled as he contemplated this, silently damning his own simple-mindedness. And quickly thereafter, damning Erskine's horrifically flawed serum, for merely heightening his physical abilities, and failing to further his already _superior_ intelligence.

But alas, he should have expected such from the very beginning. Erskine, after all, was only a _man_. A _human_.

He smirked slightly, but his amusement was short-lived as his former thoughts resumed precedence.

He turned around to find Zola still standing there, busying himself with adjusting his bowtie. Johann cracked his jaw and sighed, rather loudly, hoping the gesture would convey what he otherwise would have said aloud. _Why are you still here, polluting the air with your human filth?_

Ignorant to his superior's annoyance, Zola continued to fuss at his clothing, head bent, brows furrowed in deep concentration. Apparently it took some amount of focus to achieve a perfectly formed bow.

Johann closed his eyes for a moment – eye rolling was far too juvenile for his taste – before addressing the little scientist. Clearing his throat just loud enough for Zola to take notice, he indicated dryly,

"You make a far better lawn-ornament than you do a scientist, Arnim."

Zola gawked at him for a moment, confusion etched into his features. Johann shook his head and strode past him, leaving the scientist to gape. He reached the entrance and turned back to see if Zola had followed. He sighed again, rather heavily.

"Come along, Dr. Zola. Let us not spend the evening dawdling. That would be terribly counter-productive and I do prefer to be on schedule."

Nearly dropping his glasses, the scientist snapped his hanging jaw shut, scurrying to his superior's side.

"Yes sir, my apologies sir, I – I"

"Do you remember our discussion earlier today, Dr. Zola?"

"Well… yes sir."

Cocking his head slightly, he replied, "Then you would do well to heed to my advice."

Lapsing into a jog (as he so often found himself doing, nowadays), Zola hurriedly upped his pace, not wanting to prolong his superior's wait. It was evident that Schmidt's patience was waning, already on its final thread, and he didn't particularly wish to irritate the man.

Striding at a brisk pace, Johann pressed a gloved hand to his jawbone, probing methodically, as was his habit.

"You are absolutely certain that there were _no_ alterations, Dr. Zola? No peculiar brain activities, no physical tremors, anything unordinary?"

"Quite, sir. I tested everything twice to ensure that there were no errors in the process." Zola rubbed at his glasses. "It is most puzzling. Not even a scorch mark is present. But perhaps the vision tests will shed some light onto our predicament, or perhaps the exercise tests. Perhaps the tesseract managed to alter her physical abilities."

Johann stopped short, the little scientist nearly losing his balance as he ground to a clumsy halt beside him.

"Idiot." He muttered under his breath, his fists clenching at his sides.

"P – Pardon sir?"

He shook his head, probing at his mask in annoyance. "Not you, Dr. Zola." Sighing, he crossed the corridor to one of the various observation windows, leaning against it almost tiredly. "Do not bother with the tests, it is useless."

"W – What do you mean, sir? We must test everything, in order to ensure that we have tested every possibility."

"I understand your meaning, Dr. Zola, but trust me when I say it is useless. The test will provide you with false results."

Zola could not mask his confusion. "I – I am afraid I don't understand, sir. Our methods are always so intricately detailed and thorough – they have never failed us before. Why – why should they now?"

As he listened the scientist speak, Johann felt a slight sensation of rage well up in his chest. Why hadn't he thought of it before? Of course the tests would provide false answers – she was already and top physical condition. A series of broken images, shards almost, of fractured memories, rippled before his eyes like water.

_Mina, lying in a peaceful slumber, at long last. Her pallor was ashen, her amber-hued curls drenched with sweat, pasted to her forehead. Her skin was hot beneath his hand, of which, for once, he had removed his glove._

_It was almost unsettling, how extreme the contrast was to Wilhelmina's pale coloring. His long, slender fingers, once porcelain-white, were now a shocking crimson, gnarled in areas where the fire of the serum had scarred his flesh. It made his stomach churn, to look at it. How horrific and ugly it was – he – was, in the presence of the little girl's innocence. _

_Indeed, she was so little and frail. Ravaged by the imperfection of mortal illness. But the serum – it would remove those petty human weaknesses, elevate her to a deity-like status, a superior being. _

_Only superior beings would be allowed to live on in his perfected world. Tenderly, he stroked his niece's arm as his other hand brandished the needle and syringe. He ran his tongue across his teeth, adrenaline rushing in his veins._

_Whether or not it was the thrill of fantasizing over his ideal universe, or the fear of what he was about to do, he could not identify._

XXX

_The needle penetrated her skin smoothly, although the maddeningly slow pace at which the serum drained from the syringe did little to relax his trembling grip._

_As he removed the needle from her flesh, he waited a few moments in tense anticipation, his muscles contracted beneath the heavy material of his uniform._

_The serum had penetrated, that much he was sure, but the child slept on soundly, not even the slightest twitch shaking her frame._

_Heavily, he sighed in relief. Surely, if there were to be any painful side-effects, they would have occurred by now – _

_Mina screamed out in agony, her body convulsing as if it were possessed. Tears streamed down her ashen cheeks and her cries grew more strained, her hands clutching at the sheets, trembling violently._

_Watching in silent horror, he knew he could nothing for her. The pain would only last a few moments. _

_But to merely sit and look on as she cried in pain – it felt as if someone had reached into his chest and grabbed onto his heart, wrenching it with a death grip._

_The seconds ticked by furiously and her shrieks only grew louder, her skin burning beneath his outstretched palm._

XXX

He could hear her now, her strained cries echoing in the back of his mind, causing his heart contract within his chest, feelings of pity and remorse welling in the pit of his stomach. He scowled angrily. He had neither the time nor the patience to allow his heart to grow soft.

"Herr Schmidt?" Zola's voice sounded from behind him, an edge of nervousness in his tone. "Herr Schmidt?"

"_Ja,_ Dr. Zola?" he answered tiredly, his voice almost ragged.

"Why, sir, would the tests not –"

"Because Dr. Zola." He turned to face the scientist, who automatically hung his head in submission as he met his eyes. "She is not a normal girl. She will respond differently than an average human."

"What do you mean, sir?" he inquired quietly, his hands trembling as they removed his specs from his nose.

Johann sighed. Normally, Zola's insistent questioning would have annoyed him immensely. But at this point in time, he was simply too tired to be impatient.

"Wilhelmina has… undergone, shall we say, improvements, Dr. Zola." As he said this, he began to make his way further down the corridor, Zola scurrying to catch up. "At the beginning of her life, due to complications at birth, she was rendered extraordinarily weak and prone to illness." He stopped for a moment, pausing to glance down at the scientist.

A look of curiosity glinted faintly in Zola's eyes, though he quickly lowered his head.

"Roughly a year after her mother died, her health continued to deteriorate. Every form of streptococci, every possible ailment known to man – the girl has had them all."

Johann turned to face Zola, forcing the scientist to look up to meet his eyes. He felt his fists clench at his sides in anger.

"Every physician in Germany, Dr. Zola. Every physician in Germany I sought out, hoping that by some miracle, one of them would be able to find a cure to my niece's failing health. Something to strengthen her, something to free her of the constant torture her body was forced to endure almost daily."

He began to walk again, hands clasped behind his back, head held up in a regal manner.

"Every single one of them gave the same answer – that there was nothing that could be done, that all I could do was wait for the next illness to kill her." Straightening, his muscles went rigid with angered tension. "So, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I was able to procure the last of Erskine's serum before he so _heroically _fled the country; the results of the serum, were satisfactory."

He smirked slightly, a cruel glint in his eyes, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "It would seem that Dr. Erskine never fails to produce successful experiments."

Zola waited a few moments in almost stunned silence, until he realized that his superior had finished speaking. Looking up slowly, his jaw dropped slightly, as if in sudden realization.

"Of course – the serum would have drastically improved her physical abilities therefore the tests would… of course."

Turning away from the scientist, Johann closed his eyes for a moment, fighting the compulsive urge to roll his eyes. Although Zola's designs never failed to impress him, the man's… comprehension almost always managed to try his patience.

"Herr Schmidt," Zola's voice echoed in the back of his conscience. "Herr Schmidt?"

Opening one eye slowly, he answered, "What is it, Dr. Zola?"

"Sir, do you – do you think that perhaps that is why she was able to stabilize the tesseract?"

"What do you mean, Dr. Zola?"

"The serum – it would have at least tripled her strength, her agility – perhaps even her brain capacity. The tesseract is obviously a very volatile artifact – we were only able to successfully concentrate its power for strictly machine usage, not to the point where it could actually be manifested in a person. But perhaps… perhaps she was able to do so because of her strength, because she is stronger than an average human being and therefore she was able to withstand its power." His voice rose with a certain amount of excitement and he rubbed furiously at his specs.

"Dr. Zola, if your speculation was true, _I _would be able to stabilize the tesseract. Our levels of physical strength are the same, if mine are not higher."

Placing his specs back onto his nose, Zola looked thoughtful. "Well, yes sir, theoretically you could physically handle the tesseract. But of course, we cannot confirm that without further –"

"Testing?" Johann pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes briefly.

"Well, yes sir."

"Arnim, have you any idea what the tesseract is?"

"It is an artifact of Norse mythology, is it not, sir?"

He began to pace about the corridor, gloved hands clasped tightly behind his back. "The Tesseract, although of great historical value, is an artifact not to be toyed with, Zola. Although, I do not blame you for your way of thinking; as scientists, we are trained to test everything, down to the most miniscule detail, and then to test and retest the object again and again, to find whatever it is we are searching for." He stopped.

"This cannot be done with the Tesseract. An artifact of such volatile nature is prone to change; even if we could physically 'test' its properties, the results would never match because the object being tested would continue to change. If we were to test one's ability to manifest the tesseract's properties within themselves, we would most likely see a very similar conclusion."

"What do you mean, sir?"

Johann turned to face him. "Well, Zola, you tell me. Would it be – convenient, shall we say – if our test subjects were to be consumed by the properties of the Tesseract?"

Zola wore a look of utter confusion. "What do you mean, consumed, sir?"

"The tesseract has not been physically handled by any being, moreover of mortal ancestry in over a millennium, Arnim. Do you know who the last person to bear it was?"

"N – No sir."

"Thor."

He turned on his heel and continued down the hall. "So you see, Zola. It is not quite so easy for someone like myself or even that American simpleton to simply… waltz in and grab it. Believe me, if it was, I would have already done it."

XXX

HYDRA Test Chamber

Dual Perspectives

White. That was the color. Not the soft, downy white of freshly fallen snow or the silken white of swans' wings. A harsh, fluorescent white that stung her eyes and made her head throb.

Voices echoed against the metal walls, ringing in her ears almost painfully. Their words were garbled, her mind muddling their sentences together.

"_Dr. Zola – the girl – awakened – tranquilized – unplug – machines – _"

"Where – where am I?" her throat was dry, unable to produce sound. Blurred images appeared above her, the hazy outline of masked faces, alien in appearance. But among them, she could see a human-being, at least in appearance, with large spectacles and a bright red, polka-dotted bowtie. She focused on the sound of his voice, the words growing clearer now.

"No, no, that won't be necessary. Herr Schmidt wants her removed to his quarters. Remove the sensors and get her some clothes."

The masked guards dutifully bowed their heads and filed off in various directions, leaving the funny looking little man.

He seemed to be staring down at her, curiously.

"Do not fear, Miss Hofstadter. We have finished testing you for now. Now you must rest, so that you will be ready for us in the morning."

"Ready for – ready for what?" she murmured; a dull throbbing began in the back of her eyes, blurring her vision once again.

The little man smiled. "What you did today was most impressive, my dear girl. Your uncle was most intrigued. However, you are very tired. Tomorrow you will be well-rested, and you will be able to control the tesseract for us again."

"The tesseract?"

"Hush child, close your eyes and go to sleep. You must rest."

She fought to keep her eyes open, but the overwhelming sensation of fatigue made her limbs feel as if they each weighed fifty pounds, and the throbbing in her skull made her almost welcome sleep as it fell upon her once again.

XXX

Johann Schmidt's Private Quarters/Laboratory

From Mina's Perspective

Beads of cold sweat trickled down her forehead, her body shivering in the frigid air. Sitting up slowly, she could no longer feel the tendrils of wiring creeping down her arms, the itchy, alien feeling of sensors stuck to her flesh.

The room was dark, save for a small ray of light trickling in through the covered window. She glanced down to see a black woolen blanket pooling about her lap. Reaching out with her hand, she felt something else, something smooth, almost slippery to the touch. Pulling it up to examine it, she realized it was her Uncle's heavy leather coat that he would wear with his SS uniform. Laying it back down, she felt something inside her contract almost mournfully.

Johann must have been here.

She felt tears brimming in her eyes, her stomach churning. Suddenly, all she wanted was to go home, to have everything that had happened in the last two days to disappear, like a nightmare that she would wake up from in a few moments, with Johann cradling her in his arms, kissing her head, telling her it was all over, all gone.

But it was too late.

Images of the tesseract flashed before her eyes, the look of merciless fury in her uncle's eyes as he'd slapped her, the power surging through her body and from her fingertips.

Whatever had happened today – whatever this 'tesseract' was – she would be a fool to think that everything would go back to normal.

Rising from the bed she lay upon, she felt her muscles trembling – with fear or simply chill, she couldn't tell. She crossed over to the window, pulling back the heavy fabric.

The greyish-blue light of the moon flooded into the room, casting queer shadows along the metal walls and giving the contents of the room an almost luminous quality.

The room was rather expansive, consisting of a raised platform where the bed stood, along with a small side table with a few books, a picture, and a decanter of some clear liquid – probably liquor.

A small flight of steps led to the lower area, a spacious yet compact area containing of two leather sofas, a small coffee table strewn with maps and weathered books and ashtrays. Two large portraits flanked a modern-looking, metal hearth set against the back wall. The embers in the fireplace still gave off a dull glow. In the dim light, she could make out one of the portraits to be of the god Thor, surrounded by black storm clouds, his golden hammer raised to the heavens, bolts of lightning emanating from the object.

The other portrait, she was forced to strain to see. She could begin to make out the colors – blacks and blues and grays – and red. Blood red, and quite an amount of it.

Slowly, she took a few steps closer. Craning her neck, she could just make out the image.

Against the peaceful backdrop of the Alpine winter, the man in the portrait was most horrific in nature.

A grotesque skull-like face, the color of freshly spilt blood.

"Ah. You are awake, I see."

She reeled back, nearly toppling over, at the sound of the voice echoing across the room.

The individual sighed in an annoyed manner before turning on the one of the lamps beside the sofa. Rising to a standing position, the figure turned.

Johann stared pointedly at her misshapen frame, partially sprawled across the floor, her upper half propped up against the corner of the bed.

"Get up, Wilhelmina." His voice was ragged, tired; his eyes were red-rimmed. He waited in silence as she hauled herself to her feet.

Her eyes level with his now, he continued. "Give me one reason why I should not shoot you where you stand."

"Because you need me for your tests." She answered quietly, her voice cracking slightly.

Johann sighed again, not annoyed, but in a fatigued manner. Looking at him closely, she guessed he probably hadn't slept in several days. He rarely slept at all – he spent all of his time working and working and working – and working. Copious amounts of coffee, liquor, and cigarettes seemed to be the only necessities he required to keep his body running efficiently.

But now, it seemed as if that lack of sleep was taking its toll. He looked and sounded exhausted.

Lowering his gaze to the ground, he pointed at the sofa. "Sit."

He waited for her patiently as she crossed the room, sitting down somewhat rigidly on the sofa. Folding her hands in her lap, she lowered her eyes to the floor and waited for him to continue.

Sitting in the chair opposite her, Johann retrieved a long, black cigarette-holder from his breast pocket, reaching for the half-empty packet that rested on the arm of the chair.

Delicately removing a cigarette and placing it at the end of the holder, he resumed speaking.

"Although you are likely to be against it, I need you tell me everything you did leading up to your –" he paused for a moment, taking a long drag on the cigarette. "Small incident."

"Small?" she whispered, half to herself. "Was it?"

"Wilhelmina,"

"I couldn't tell." She answered quickly. "What it was like, I mean. I – I couldn't concentrate. On anything. Everything was… blurry. Out of focus, like a bad picture. Just… all there was… just me and… the… the…."

"The tesseract."

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with what he perceived to be fear. Or something of that nature. He was too tired to pay too close attention to her expressions.

"Yes. That's what it's called, isn't it? Such a strange name…" she spoke very quietly, as if musing to herself, her words not directed at anyone in particular…. "What is it, this 'tesseract'?"

Johann shifted uncomfortably in his seat, probing at his mask. "Wilhelmina,"

"Please Uncle." Her eyes wore such a look of pleading – it almost made his heart ache. Though quickly, he brushed any remorseful feelings aside. The girl had caused him far too much trouble for him to grow soft at this point in time. With Hitler growing more impatient for weapons, the Gestapo's demand for 'progress reports' grew more ardent and certainly they badgered him more frequently than he would have liked.

He no longer possessed the leisure of taking his sweet time with his plans. With the tesseract's power stabilized enough to concentrate into Zola's designs, he had more firepower than he could ever have wanted.

But with the possibility that that same power could be manifested within a human being? Granted, he would have been much more pleased if it were possible to manifest in just any human – with that power in his clutches, what need did he have for some minuscule super-soldier serum? Now, if he were able to create an entire army of men with the ability to destroy everything in their sight?

Regardless of whether or not this was obtainable, he needed to know _how _Mina had managed to get a hold of the tesseract. He might not be able to figure out _why_ it allowed her to hold it – but still.

Her newfound powers could be of great use to his cause – and, it would give her exactly what she wanted. Inclusion in his business. Of course, the specific details of that business would be kept under wraps until he had successfully achieved his goals.

Sighing heavily, he blew a thick cloud of smoke into the air. Looking at his niece now, that wild look of insecurity, of fear – she was still so naïve, so innocent, so very much a child.

She would never understand why, why he craved control so much, why he wanted to rid this world of human tarnish. She would perceive his genius to be anything but – cruelty, insanity, hatred, bloodlust. Any one of those would probably fit the bill.

"Just as your mother did." He said softly.

"Uncle,"

He glanced up at her, the same pleading look still shining brightly in her eyes.

"Uncle, please, please tell me what it is." Her voice cracked, her eyes wet with tears threatening to spill. "Tell me why it – why it did – what happened to me?" He watched as the tears began to trickle down her cheeks now, her voice choked as she spoke. "You intend to use me as a lab-rat. The least you could do is tell me why."

His lips twisted into a scowl, the blue of his irises turning to ice. "Whoever told you that?" his voice had venom it, although he knew exactly what her answer would be.

"That scientist – Zola."

Johann swore under his breath. Incompetent fool. The idiot never seemed to know when to close his mouth or when to open it. When his skills were needed, it seemed that he was more content to stand there gaping like a fish. And when all he needed to do was to shut up, he couldn't seem to keep his mouth closed.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Mina cut him off, her voice rising, the slight fear in her voice escalating into terror, the tears streaming, her hands trembling in her lap.

"When I held it – the tesseract – it… I… I wanted it, Uncle. I wanted to hold it, I wanted to feel it. To feel the power… or whatever it was… to feel it coursing through me, it – I felt like a… like a god. I felt as if nothing could hurt me, nothing could ever hurt me. It spoke to me, Uncle. Someone… the voice was so strange, multilayered as if it were multiple people speaking at once. And then there was all this gibberish behind it, itching at my ears. But the voice… the clearest one, rather… it said that I was… that I was the chosen one, that I was the bearer or something like that… and… and… Uncle, please tell me what it is! Please tell me why it did this to me! Why did it turn me into this monster, this killer?"

The poor girl was close to hysteria, tears streaming down her cheeks, her entire frame quaking and trembling, her breaths short and rapid.

To see her in such a state – it made his heart ache mournfully. But what could he do? How could he comfort her when he hardly understood any of it himself? How could he alleviate her uncertainty when he didn't have the answers?

Sighing heavily – he was prone to doing that, lately – he rose from his seat and crossed over to her, sitting beside her and very gently pulling her into his arms.

Taking hold of one of her small hands in his large gloved one, he pressed a kiss against her tangled curls. Pulling back, she looked up at him, her blue eyes mirroring his own.

"Uncle, please." She whispered. "Please tell me what it is."

Lowering his gaze to the floor, he flexed his gloved fingers in his lap, a nervous energy flowing through him.

Sighing, he spoke. "The tesseract is an artifact of Norse Mythology, the jewel of Odin's treasure room. For over a millennium, it has been thought to be non-existent, merely a figment of storytellers' imaginations."

"But it isn't." she whispered. "It's real."

"Yes. The tesseract has been widely revered throughout mythological history due to its highly volatile nature – its properties are constantly being altered, changed, for reasons that no one can comprehend. Only the gods understand it fully."

At his last words, he found himself scowling. Although he would never admit it aloud, he was almost ashamed to know that he, the most superior being left on this sad, spinning shell of a world could not understand an object that equaled his level of advancement.

"As for its… allowing you to bear it… I have no idea. The tesseract has not been physically handled by anyone for over a millennium, widely due to its prolonged isolation in Norway. Dr. Zola and I are hoping that further testing will be able to explain why it… had such a profound effect upon you."

"Do you think that I will still be able to… to wield it? I mean… I only held onto it for perhaps a few moments before you… removed it. After that, I think everything was residual. Did I really imbue myself with it, or was it just that the leftover energy was perhaps transferred into me somehow, through contact?"

Massaging his masked temples, he took a long drag on his cigarette, absently flicking the ashes off the smoldering butt. Running his tongue along his teeth, he closed his eyes and breathed heavily. He was almost ashamed to continue speaking, given what his reply would be, but he did perhaps owe her that much, although he doubted it would do any good.

"I don't know, Mina. I don't know."

**Hope you guys enjoyed it! And as always, I give you my sincerest appreciation and gratitude, for those of you who kindly leave a review. Also, just to let everyone know - my progress on chapter eleven will unfortunately be halted for the next two weeks as I will be leaving for vacation and will thus have no internet access or access to word:( But, alas, this will give me plenty of time to think up an epic plot for for chapter 11! Thank you again to all who review! You guys are amazing!**


	11. Patience is a Virtue

**Ahem, as a bit of a preamble here. Yes, yes, I know, it's been for freaking *ever* since I last updated, and for that I apologize sincerely. I've gotten sidetracked an inexcusable number of times. Forgive me.**

**XXX**

**Ladies and Gentlemen, very quietly today, I give you, chapter eleven of Athena.**

**I really hate the number eleven. It just sounds so weak and uninspiring after… CHAPTER 10… **

**Chapter 10 just sounds so much more magnificent, more of a fanfiction milestone, if you will.**

**Well… unless of course you're a much more dedicated writer than me and have made it up to chapter… I don't know… thirty or something…**

**KUDOS to those of you who do, by the way. Anywho, thank you again to Kukapetal, Musicwolf7, he/she who calls themselves 'Guest', and all of those who continually review this fanfiction and provide me with undying support and the very best inspiration. Without all of you, this fic would have died not long after the prologue.**

**And so, I give you chapter 11. Since there isn't a whole lot of action, as this is more of a segue-into-bigger-things chapter, I've taken the liberty of adding a scene in which Johann gets to exercise his awesome ruthless villainy. Mwahahahahahahaha!**

**Regards and as always, Review.**

**Without your support, I've nowhere to go, so please do tell me if my work lives up to your expectations!**

**Alas, for now, I bid you Auf Wiedersehen. A certain simpleton with a shield seems to be sabotaging my word documents.**

**J.B**

**Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of the music of either Grieg or Stravinsky, and of course, all Marvel characters belong to, well, Marvel obviously. As of now, only Mina belongs to me.**

HYDRA Base – The Alps

Johann Schmidt's Laboratory

"Is she ready, Dr. Zola?" Standing in the archway that separated his private quarters from the laboratory, Johann adjusted the high collar of his custom-designed uniform, running his free hand along the smooth crimson flesh of his skull. The hired artist would be coming by later in the morning; it was imperative that he look absolutely flawless. Scowling, he removed a small pocket watch from his coat. The last portrait was a disaster, the lighting too dark, the scenery too drab. If he timed it just so, he could catch the afternoon sun glinting off of the Alps, outlining his silhouette in the glory of the winter scenery.

Of course, the sun could not shine_ too_ brightly. As much as he admired the majestic landscape that loomed just outside his window, he simply could not allow it to overshadow the true _majesty_ of the portrait.

His scowl twisted into a smirk, a chilling expression against the bloodred backdrop of his skin.

It was, after all, _himself _that would take the breath away of every set of eyes that would look upon this painting.

Normal people of course would look upon such a spectacle with utter horror.

He always found it rather pitiful, how tasteless human beings could be. But of course, their opinions would no longer matter, in just a few short months. Perhaps even sooner.

"Slaves." He whispered under his breath, smiling. "They shall mock me now, but wait until they are forced to bow down before me, worshipping me like a god." A low chuckle resonated at the base of his throat.

Zola glanced up at his superior, his face flushed with a look of bewilderment. It was so very rare that Schmidt was ever in a good mood; of course, it was almost impossible to differentiate between good and bad with the man. Every word he uttered seemed to drip with malice, and yet his voice somehow managed to maintain its eerie, lulling effect, quiet and measured, formal and sophisticated.

Quickly he lowered his eyes back onto the hub of machinery, delicately loosening the restraints on the arms of the straight-backed, metal chair that stood at the center. He did not envy the girl who would soon be its occupant.

"Almost, sir." He murmured quietly. "I believe the technicians are still prepping her."

By now, Johann had crossed to his office area, removing a large, black box from the confines of his desk. With a delicate grip, he gingerly removed what appeared to be a model of a head, the synthetic face pieces that he donned when in the presence of individuals ignorant to his true appearance, molded to its surface.

Carefully peeling off the rubber front piece, he pulled the top delicately over his head, allowing the synthetic 'face' to rest against his own, pressing it in with his fingertips. The material was cool and slightly sticky against his skin; as with every other occasion that he donned the mask, he suffered the nagging urge to tear it off, to itch at his skin, to rid it of the taint of this alien material.

Clenching his fists briefly, he continued on to the back piece, smoothing it against the back of his neck, briefly running his fingers through the fabricated dark hair, ensuring that it covered the seam. One final sweep with his fingers across the rubber surfaces, gently probing the seams to ensure their proper placement, and he replaced the mannequin and box in its large drawer.

Sighing heavily, he glanced down at the little scientist, several steps below him, head bowed over the mass of wires and machinery.

"It has been nearly forty-five minutes now, Dr. Zola."

"Y – Yes sir, I suppose it has."

Clucking his tongue, Johann crossed over to the phonograph that sat just beside his desk. He ran a gloved hand along the array of records thoughtfully, pausing before a weathered copy of Edvard Grieg's _Anitra's Dance, _of the Peer Gint Suite.

"_Too much like Carmen, I suppose_," he mused. Frowning, he passed over the record, instead selecting an even more weathered copy of Stravinsky's _Firebird_.

Wilhelmina's favorite. Ideally, the music would serve as a calming influence for the girl, when in the process of the testing.

Although, with her rebellious streak, his better judgment told him it would be wise to ready the sedatives – just for safety, after all.

"Perhaps Grieg would have been a more suitable choice, after all." He mumbled.

Removing a set of glass vials from an array of chemicals, resting on his worktable, he muttered to himself bitterly.

"Tell me Dr. Zola, why is it that suddenly even my most efficient operatives are beginning to lose the finesse that allowed them to thrive in my organization?"

Glancing up from the table, he looked at the scientist. "I leave them for but a mere few hours and chaos ensues, all because of one idiotic child, worse still, a female."

Zola avoided his superior's icy gaze, nervously fiddling with his specs. _So much for the good mood_, he thought uneasily.

"W – Well sir… at least the tesseract was not harmed, and of course, the girl will provide us with an excellent weapon against your enemies."

He watched uneasily as one dark, fabricated eyebrow rose upon Schmidt's synthetic face, his ice-blue eyes gleaming intently.

"The _girl_?" he inquired, although his tone was flat and cold. The mask twisted into a scowl, an expression of pure disgust written upon his features.

Shifting uncomfortably, Zola quickly lowered his gaze. "_Fraulein_ Hofstadter, I mean of course."

Schmidt nodded slightly, as if in acceptance of Zola's blunder. Descending the steps, Zola shrank back into his haven behind the machinery, as his superior passed him, his hands trembling within his lab-coat pockets.

Stopping to inspect several maps laid out upon the tables, Johann clucked his tongue loudly, as if a disappointed parent about to chastise a child.

"You really must think before you allow your tongue to spite you, Dr. Zola. Your choice of wording is all too often poor, and in my business, Dr. Zola, what you say will either be your savior or your untimely death." Lighting up a cigarette, he paused to glance at the scientist. "I encourage you to think about that, from now on, before proceeding to speak, Arnim."

The scientist nodded meekly, meaninglessly rearranging the wiring; anything to divert his nervous gaze from Schmidt's icy one.

Johann glanced up as a hollow clanging echoed across the laboratory as the entry doors slowly opened inward, allowing a volley of masked guards and gray, lab-coat-clad scientists to file in.

Somberly, his niece followed, flanked by several scientists. Dressed in merely a thin white shift, she shivered violently. Dark circles had bloomed beneath her eyes, her hair ragged and tangled.

One by one, the guards arranged themselves along the perimeter of the room, the scientists massing around Dr. Zola, awaiting further instructions.

All but two guards remained, their gloved hands firmly placed upon Wilhelmina's shoulders. Johann straightened, probing at his mask slightly before nodding to the guards to release her. As they filed off to the side, he approached her silently, very lightly placing a gloved hand upon her shoulder, guiding her towards the metal chair.

He could feel the bones of her shoulders beneath the shift. Her skin was almost white, her movements still quite shaky. She was like a china doll, easily shattered.

A slight sensation of guilt began to well in the pit of his stomach, but hastily he pushed all thoughts of abandoning the tests out of his mind. He was so close to his goal – so close he could almost feel the world crumbling between his fingertips, the same fools that had once mocked and humiliated him, on their knees, begging for his forgiveness.

Pulling himself out his thoughts, he realized that his niece was staring up at him expectantly, as were the guards and scientists who stood silently awaiting further orders.

Pausing to shoot them an icy glare, he steered Mina towards the metal chair, gesturing that she sit.

Glancing at the leather restraints, she hesitated.

"Merely safety precautions, _Fraulein_." Zola added. "In event that the tests are to have… negative effects on you."

"So you mean, if I go mad?" her voice was hoarse, a dry humor in her tone.

The scientist shifted uneasily, as if searching for the correct response.

"Something like that, yes." Johann answered for him, since it was more probable that Mina would appreciate his dry sarcasm over Zola's unadulterated honesty.

Much as he didn't wish to admit it to himself, that was indeed why the restraints had been put in place. If Mina were to be affected by the tesseract's presence the way she had the night before – well, there was no telling what she would do when under the object's influence again, and he'd already lost a good deal too many soldiers in one day than he would ever have liked to.

"How reassuring," she mumbled, although her attempt at sarcasm was weak. Her fear was clearly audible in her tone.

As she sat, Zola quickly set to work on the restraints, strapping her arms and legs to the chair with an uncomfortable snugness.

Johann, meanwhile, had crossed to the other side of the laboratory, gently setting the needle onto the awaiting record. Slipping into the large leather chair behind his desk, he crossed his legs casually, leaning back, as if to better enjoy the show.

Mina eyed him for a moment before settling into her rather uncomfortable captivity, allowing her eyes to glaze over as she half-heartedly examined the machinery around her. She frowned as the gentle, melancholy tones of the _Firebird Suite _began to play. It was such a blinding mockery of tranquility – the sweet and mournful tones urging a certain optimism and happiness.

And yet, there was absolutely nothing to be happy for.

The very thought jarred her from her daze, her eyes meeting several nervous pairs – that of the busy scientists hastily preparing for the experiment. At once they all seemed to stop, meeting her rapidly blinking eyes with ones of blatant curiosity.

She noticed they were all quite young, save for Zola, and each possessed deep, questioning expressions and hungry eyes.

Absently, she wondered if her uncle had at one time been like that, eager for answers, for discovery, his fear of the aftermath overruled by his curiosity for results.

Perhaps the ice-blue shade of his irises had once been vibrant, and now was hardened by years of experience.

Or failure, perhaps.

"Are you ready, Fraulein?" Zola's eyes were impossibly huge behind his spectacles, his lips pursed, a look of question etched into the lines upon his forehead.

Swallowing, she nodded, and watched as the scientists slowly approached her. Soon their ice-cold fingers were cascading across her bare arms and face and legs, attaching sticky sensors that itched at her skin, and various catheters within her veins, pumping her with God only knew what.

And all the while, Johann sat back in his chair and watched with an expression of utter boredom.

She was decidedly irked by his lack of emotion, but then again, emotion so rarely made its presence known within the man. She kept silent.

"Ready the tesseract." Zola commanded. Obediently, one of the scientists, wearing a pair of heavy protective gloves, firmly twisted the handle of the carrying device, removing the tesseract from its container.

Immediately she was drawn to the light, pulled forward in the chair as if by some invisible force. She felt her fingers involuntarily begin to claw at the arms of the chair, writhing about in the leather restraints, trying and failing to release themselves from their captivity. For a moment, she was unaware of the sudden movement, until the alien touch of Zola's sweaty fingers against her own registered in her brain.

Glancing down at his hand briefly, she gripped her hands against the metal, halting their movement.

Zola nodded, smiling slightly, as if in approval. "Just relax for the time being, _Fraulein_. I will tell you exactly what to do."

Nodding silently, she lowered her head, breathing heavily. It was as if the tesseract's presence in the room was sapping her of energy, sucking the life from her.

But then, why was she the only one who was affected by its energy, its power? Why was no one else feeling its pull, why was no one else drawn to it?

She glanced up at the scientists before her; their eyes bore into her like screwdrivers.

Quickly looking down, she couldn't help but feel like an ant under a microscope, a freak of nature.

"Now Miss Hofstadter," Zola's voice rang in her ears, "Brace yourself; you must ignore the tesseract's pull or it could consume you. All you must do is draw its force into your body through the fingertips."

"And how exactly am I to do that?" She mumbled, her voice strained.

Zola's jaw dropped slightly, his lips agape like a fish out of water. "Well I – I … I don't…."

Johann's voice echoed across the laboratory, solid and unwavering. "Do not think about it, Wilhelmina. Simply do it." His gaze was directed to the cigarette he was lighting in its holder, but she could feel his words rivet into her. _Just do it_.

Well, it was worth a try. What harm could it do?

"Aside from driving me insane." She mumbled.

"Pardon, my dear?" She glanced up at Zola, a confused expression etched into his face.

"Nothing," she answered quickly. "I am ready."

Zola nodded firmly. "Good." He donned a pair of dark black specs, shading his eyes from the blinding cobalt light of the tesseract.

In haste, the scientists backed away from the tesseract as the two bearers brought if forward; she could see the reflection of her gaunt and paling face in the slick black of their sunglasses. To say it made her feel rather uneasy was an understatement.

The pull was overpowering now as the soldiers brought it forward; the light was blinding, the tesseract poised mere inches from her face.

Through the light, she could barely make out the pearly white of Zola's tiny teeth as his lips pulled back in an almost feral smile.

"You are doing splendidly, my dear girl." His voice dripped with artificial praise – she knew better than to believe that he was commending her. He was merely egging her on, trying in vain to get her to put on the fantastical show she had performed the night before.

"I am not doing anything." She mumbled, her eyes glassy and unfocused, her lips slack and her head lolling ever so slightly to the side. It felt as if all of her bones had dissolved, leaving her incapable of any movement.

"Yes you are." Zola answered, his tone increasing with excitement. "Look at your hands my dear."

Instinctively, she glanced down. Tiny electrical currents crackled along her fingertips, like miniature lightning bolts.

"Now child, pull the currents into you, draw the tesseract's power into your body." His eyes glowed with anticipation. Even Johann was rigid in his chair, his eyes drilling into her expectantly.

As if summoned by Zola's command, the garbled cacophony of multi-lingual voices sounded in her ears, some whispering, some chanting, some screaming and wailing….

"Do you hear that?"

"Hear what, child?"

They couldn't hear the voices. Of course they couldn't. Shutting her eyes tightly, she shook her head, dismissing the question. Her fingers gripped at the edge of the chair, tingling with crackling static.

But there was nothing. The voices somehow sounded fainter, the blissful fire of the power coursing within her, weaker. She flexed her fingertips, trying to draw it in, but nothing happened.

She opened her eyes. The tiny sparks still trembled along her skin, but they came in short bursts now, flickering and dimming.

Squinting, she focused all of her will onto the tesseract, quivering and pulsing in its metal captivity.

She managed a short, concentrated burst of light, but, almost as soon as it appeared, it vanished, winked from existence like an extinguished spark.

Zola's lips, which had been momentarily agape, now pressed themselves into a straight line, his little brows furrowing into a line across his forehead.

Johann had risen from his chair, his gloved hands clenched at his sides.

The entire room was silent, not even the individual breaths of each and every HYDRA personnel audible.

"Again," her uncle's voice rang out clearly and firmly. "Do it again, Wilhelmina."

But, she could just barely hear a faint hint of despair, of urgency. She inhaled sharply, closing her eyes, willing the fire to start again. She could feel it coursing through her veins, ebbing and flowing, growing stronger and stronger.

She felt the brief crackling of static, a burst of light.

Then, nothing.

She didn't dare open her eyes, for fear of the look that would meet her. She could feel his anger in the silence, his dissatisfaction, his loathing and disgust.

Why? It had come so easily the night before, not even of her own accord. It was as if fate had decided it, that the power was meant to be there, within her.

Now, only the faintest hint of flame flickered off her fingertips. She could feel the power concentrating when she willed it to; the voices would grow louder in her head, the tesseract's presence drawing her into its light.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, the flames died away instantly, the voices cut off mid-shriek, not even an echo resounding in her head.

"That's enough for today."

Johann's voice was soft and measured, but the dissatisfaction was blatant in his tone. She swallowed hard, her chest heaving with every inhalation. Her limbs trembled, her throat tight, as if she might burst into tears.

She knew she had absolutely no control over the tesseract; rather, it had control over her. But she couldn't help but feel as if she'd done something terribly wrong, that she hadn't tried hard enough, that she had failed him.

She barely registered the restraints being undone and the guards pulling her up from the chair and guiding her to the doors.

As they pulled her along, she could not help but glance back. Very briefly, her eyes met Johann's ice-blue ones, the chilling stare she received causing her to shudder.

For a moment, she resisted her captors, struggling to grasp onto his gaze, searching for some perceivable emotion.

In response to her questioning glance, he simply nodded once, and returned to his chair behind his desk, slipping into his abyss of paperwork and blueprints as if nothing had ever happened.

The guards tugged at her shoulder and reluctantly she allowed them to lead her away, accepting that a nod of either approval or indifference was the only reaction she would receive from him.

A feeling of emptiness seeped into her flesh, coursing through her blood and causing her heart to ache. She had grown used to her uncle's silent praise over the years – he had never been the type to verbally accolade a performance of any sort. It was usually a nod or a pat on the shoulder or a slight twitch of the lips perhaps, but nothing more.

Once, when she was still rather young, in the middle of a rather loud tantrum, she had ridiculed him of hating her, as he never outwardly praised her, never told her she had done well or that he was truly proud of her.

At the time, his response had been maddening to her; he'd simply smiled and kissed her head and quietly replied with, "Patience is a virtue, my sweet little Mina. I will let you know when your performance has impressed me."

Although she now had the wherewithal to realize that she would never be rewarded for anything even a hair less than superior, it stung bitterly to have the heavy weight of expectation forever biting into her skin.

Today, that sting was deep and bracing.

Obviously, no reward would come her way.

XXX

The Laboratory

From Johann's Perspective

His fingers clutched the broad back of the leather swivel chair, the muscles taut beneath his leather gloves. His spine had long since gone numb, despite his tightly clenched fist digging into his flesh. Ah yes, the classic pose. Head held high, chin pointed defiantly; a single arm stretched outward, the other tucked neatly behind the back. Silhouette framed in warm light, the snow swirling majestically in the late afternoon sun behind him. Regal, yet pensive and thoughtful at the same time. A perfect balance.

He sighed heavily. It was such a terrible pity; he had so hoped that his good mood would last the day – the slight hint of a smirk playing at his lips and the cool indifference in his eyes was an expression that paired much better with a portrait than a cold, irritated glare and an angry scowl.

He hadn't planned for his generally congenial outlook to be fouled by dismal failure. He closed his eyes, inhaling sharply. Perhaps he was being too hasty. The eager nature of the scientist in him was getting the better of his patience.

After all, this had only been the first attempt. Perhaps the girl was simply fatigued and her abilities would be rejuvenated after a day of rest.

Closing his eyes briefly, he listened to the mournful cords of Beethoven's _Moonlight Sonata_, the artist's measured brush-strokes audible in the quiet atmosphere.

Patience. Yes, patience was what he needed.

He felt his fist clench behind his back, the tips of his gloved fingers digging angrily into his palm. _Patience _was something he simply no longer had the time for. _Patience_ was a dying commodity in a world of Nazi upstarts who believed that all they had to do was waltz into an enemy country, occupy it, and have done with it. That was all there was to taking over the world.

_Fools_. His lip tugged upward in a wicked half-smile. The Nazi regime would be the first on his list to destroy.

It was, after all, only he fair that he give them their due suffering, considering they had become the immediate source of his.

The hollow sound of wood hitting the metal floor tiles interrupted his thoughts and his smirk twisted into an irked scowl.

"Something wrong, _guter Herr_?"

The painter's head bobbed out from behind the canvas, the small, bulbous little eyes peeking up at him with a look of utter fear.

"I – I – I seem to have run out of this particular shade of red, _mein Herr_."

His eye twitched upward, as if to raise a brow, although whatever ones he'd had had been singed off long ago.

He stepped down from the raised platform upon which his desk stood, and with lengthy, fluid strides, he crossed over to the painter.

The little man ducked away as he took a measured look at the progress of the portrait.

He clucked his tongue. Only halfway finished; the better half of his face still remained untouched.

"You've hardly used the color, my good sir. I find that difficult to believe."

The man shifted nervously. "Your features are very uh… unique, _mein Herr_. I've never dealt with a client whose coloring is so… well…"

Schmidt shot the man an icy glare, prodding him to finish his reply with haste. "I had to mix two shades together to make a red so dark, sir. I fear I've run out of both."

Johann nodded slightly in mock belief, as he would when Wilhelmina foolishly attempted to hide the truth of her wrongdoings from him. "Ah, I see."

He glanced down at the pallet of paints – all shades seemed to be in ample supply.

"And how exactly would you be able to procure more of this particular shade – or rather, shades, I suppose?"

The artist was staring at his shoes. "I – I – I would have to go back to Berlin, sir. I – I – I could come back at a later date to finish your painting," he answered quickly, stumbling over his words.

"Ah yes, of course you could." His voice was quiet, an almost lilting tone to it. "I trust you are a noble, brave man, sir. Certainly you would not think of cheating me of my money's worth, and abandoning my assignment once you have successfully fled to Berlin?"

At this the man's eyes seemed to pop, whether with fear or surprise, Johann couldn't clearly define. But he was satisfied with the reaction.

" – Certainly not, _Mein Herr_, I – I – "

"Then rather than allowing you to vacate my humble abode here, and give you the chance to do something utterly stupid – perhaps I have a solution to your dilemma."

He held back a grin as the man's face seemed to fall, his eyes gleaming with clearly defined terror now.

"You – you have a solution?" his words stumbled slowly from his lips, as if he suddenly couldn't speak.

"Certainly, my good man. I am a very resourceful individual." He smiled at the man slyly and crossed to his desk. He pulled open the top drawer, reaching for his revolver.

"If you could please come forward, sir." He said quietly, carefully covering the weapon with a gloved hand.

Uncertainly, the man inched slowly forward. "Sir, I –"

A loud bang resounded off of the metal walls mixing with the agonized shriek of the artist, who crumbled to his knees.

Johann couldn't help but watch with a certain sadistic pleasure as the idiotic man before him clutched at his now bleeding hand, gaping at the jagged tear in his palm where the bullet had shot clean through.

He ran his tongue across his teeth, grinning wickedly as he watched the deep crimson liquid pool onto the floor, glistening in the light of the overhead lamps.

"Fancy that." He said quietly. "It would seem that you now have a surplus of that shade of red, don't you think, my good sir?"

The man stared up at him in horror, his mouth agape. Johann smiled and gestured towards the easel.

"Continue painting, please. I'm on a rather tight schedule."


	12. The Red Skull's Indulgence

**First and foremost, my apologies for the rather lackluster last chapter – I really just wanted to finish it so that I could get on to the bigger and better things in this chapter. So, anywho. Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my honor to present you with, **_**Kapitel Zw**__**ö**__**lf. **_** I promised last chapter that there were bigger things to come in the future, and today, I shall deliver. In this chapter, we'll get into some rather plucky stuff, along with more explanation from Johann as Mina's view of HYDRA begins to develop.**

**My dearest readers, you have my sincerest gratitude. To all of those who continually read and review this fic, that would have died long ago had it not been for you inspiring and motivating support. I cannot even begin to describe how grateful I am to you, to know that there are actually people out there who read my writing, and what's more, enjoy it.**

**Special thanks to Musicwolf7, for the very touching review – you've no idea how honored I feel (seriously, I'm not just being overly-dramatic here****) that you think that I have good taste in music (which also means that you have STELLAR taste in music) and that you have enjoyed this fic. Thank you to Blackbird 71, for reviewing TWO chapters back-to-back! And thank you anyone else who might have left me your much-valued feedback. You guys are my rocks, my foundation. Without you, I'd be nowhere.**

**So, as a token of my gratitude, I give you, chapter 12.**

**Warmest Regards (and please do review),**

**J.B**

HYDRA Base – The Alps

Johann Schmidt's Private Quarters

Thousands of tiny, fragile little snowflakes whirled about just beyond the majestic floor-to-ceiling window, dancing in the bitter-cold winds with their usual fairy-like etherealness.

Dazedly, Mina gazed into the morning sunlight, neglecting the other half of her head that was still done up in curlers. Johann had insisted that she look her best today – several Gestapo officers would be arriving at the base within mere hours and he wanted her to reflect favorably on his characteristic perfection.

Sighing, she yanked them out with painstaking tediousness. She glanced into the small mirror that hung on the wall beside the metal washbasin, giving her caramel-colored curls a once-over with a brush before pinning them back.

"There you are," Johann leaned against the doorframe, surveying her progress coolly. She turned to look at him, and he smiled approvingly.

"My beautiful girl. So grown up."

His eyes glinted with something – she couldn't tell if his strangely congenial manner was genuine or merely an act.

"Come here, please. Let me have a closer look at you."

Obediently, she stood before him. He waved his hand and she turned about in a circle, silently allowing him to inspect her for any discrepancies. As she came to look at him, he again smiled and drew her into his arms.

Cigarette smoke mingled with potent cologne on his jacket, stinging her nostrils. She attempted to free herself of his grasp, and heeding to her struggles, he dropped his arms to his sides.

With a gloved hand, he reached out, and with his thumb and forefinger, he lifted her chin so that she was forced to look into his eyes.

"Why are you so forlorn this morning, my dear?" His tone was concerned.

She lowered her eyes to the floor. "I thought you'd be mad at me."

His brows furrowed in question. "Whatever would I be mad at you for?"

"Because I failed you."

The words turned to ash in her mouth and the bitter sting of tears blinded her.

It had been roughly a week and a half since her late-night excursion on the base, and the days following it had been nothing short of exhausting.

Day in and day out, she was brought to the laboratory and strapped to a metal chair, the restraints pulled so tightly they had left nasty sores on her wrists and ankles.

Day in and day out, that thing called the Tesseract that she had grown to despise so horribly was brought before her.

And day in and day out, she was asked to imbue its depthless powers into herself, to become, if only for a mere few moments, a god-like entity.

She failed to do so. Every. Single. Time.

Perhaps it was the silence that hurt most. She'd never known how loud silence truly could be. Its weight heavy and eternal, pressing down onto her shoulder blades and seeping into her bones.

A flicker of electricity, a spark, sustained only for a moment, would leap off of her fingers –

And die. Extinguished in mid-air, like an invisible whisper blowing it out like a birthday candle.

Dr. Zola's triumphant smirk would vanish, his chin melting into his neck as his lips tugged downward in the most degrading frown.

The thin, pursed line that Johann's lips would create, the cold and lifeless stare that would grace his brilliant blue irises.

Not a sound in the room – save for whatever dreary music he had selected for the day. Yesterday's had been Chopin's Funeral March – his very favorite piano composition. How ironic that he had selected such a somber tone on the day that her hope would finally crack – shatter into a thousand worthless shards, leaving her broken and useless.

She'd spent the day confined to Johann's private quarters, lying on the cold metal floor and staring up into the gray, snowy abyss that stretched out before her. Tears had streaked her ashen cheeks and it wasn't until well into the night that she finally wept herself to sleep.

Never had she felt the bitter sting of defeat so strongly than in these past few days. She'd never felt its weight grow heavier and heavier, it's shrill cackling ringing in her ears, mocking her.

She'd only ever wanted to be a success in his eyes, to be as brilliant and _perfect _and _flawless_ and_ precise_ as he was.

Everything – _everything_ – he excelled at. Mathematics in all its forms was child's play to Johann; while she was tortured daily by the countless ugly algorithms she was assigned. Latin, Greek, Norwegian, Arabian, French – even Spanish rolled off his tongue as if he'd been speaking the language since infancy. She could barely count to ten in any of the languages, and yet he continually forced her to perform slow and painstaking recitations in each of them.

His fingers flew across the keys of a piano with the utmost grace; the _Revolutionary Et__ú__de _was all too simple – he complained that he could never find a piece challenging enough, while her fingers twisted and tripped as she fumbled her way through Beethoven and Liszt.

Perhaps it was simply her fate; she was destined to be lesser, to be ordinary, unremarkable. There were worse things out there she supposed; she wasn't sick or dying. She wasn't impoverished or homeless.

Why did something so stupid, so trivial – why did it hurt so much?

"_Why_," she whispered, tears brimming in her eyes. Her throat felt choked, as if an invisible noose was being tightened around it. She looked up into Johann's ice-blue eyes. "Why – why can't – "

The words were cut off as the sobs she had held back overwhelmed her; tears blurred her vision and her chest heaved as she gasped for air.

She felt Johann's strong arms wrap around her, and she buried her head into his chest, weeping quietly. She felt his gloved fingers smooth her curls and felt the ghost of a kiss brush her head.

"Hush," he coaxed, "There is no reason for tears."

"Yes there is." She protested.

"Wilhelmina, you're being a child."

"I _am_ a child."

She heard him sigh, then chuckle softly. "You'll achieve nothing if you continue to conduct yourself in such a nonsensical manner." From the tone of his voice, he was trying for seriousness, but there was a glimmer of lightheartedness in his words.

She looked up at him. "Why aren't you angry with me?" she asked again.

"What reason do I have to be angry?"

"I didn't draw the tesseract's essence into me. I'm not the god-like thing you expected me to be. I failed." Her voice was flat.

Johann sighed and released her from his grasp. He crossed the room to the crystal decanter and poured himself a glass of schnapps.

"You, my dear, are a hypothesis, for lack of a better term. An educated guess, a conjecture and nothing more." He paused take a sip. "I _conjectured_ that you would be able to reproduce the – impressive performance you gave us that night. Obviously, there were several gaping flaws in my conjecture, flaws that I was simply too impatient to address."

He gazed listlessly into his glass, as if its contents were suddenly immensely fascinating.

"You are unhappy with someone." She murmured, almost inaudibly. She saw his eyes move about uncertainly.

"Not with you." He answered simply. "Given time, and perhaps some ingenuity on the part of Dr. Zola and myself, I believe you will have an adequate chance to progress. We still have several more ideas for you, my dear. As long as you are here, the least you can do in recompense for your – irresponsibility (his lip tugged upward in a half-grin as she flinched inwardly) – is try to make yourself useful."

He turned to look at her, his smile dripping with a saccharine sweetness. "Besides, is that not what you wanted? To be a part of my work?"

Meekly, she nodded.

"Excellent." He proceeded to the doorway. "I expect for the officers to be arriving in roughly an hour's time. Please do try to make yourself scarce while our meeting is taking place. I should like to keep the past few days' goings-on concealed for the time being, and I am not confident in your ability of keeping your mouth – however lovely it may be – shut."

"Why did you want me dressed up then?"

"Since you have been refusing to smile of late, I had hoped that perhaps if we bedecked you in your finery you might look a bit less dismal."

He smiled at her slightly. "Obviously, I was not successful."

"Uncle,"

He turned once again to look at her, sighing almost impatiently, as if she was keep him from something important.

"When will I be going back to Berlin?"

He raised an eyebrow. "What need is there for you to return to Berlin?"

"Well I – I have school and – "

"Ah, that." He waved a hand dismissively. "That is no longer necessary. I've disenrolled you – the school system hasn't achieved anything remarkable that would give me reason to keep you in attendance."

Her mouth dropped open, agape for a moment, but she quickly resumed her composure. "You've – you've disenrolled me? Why?"

Johann sighed impatiently. "Wilhelmina, is it truly necessary that I repeat myself? Your education has not improved drastically enough that I would consider keeping you in school. You will learn more here than you would there. And besides, you are already in excellent academic condition. If for some unimaginable reason I am unable to educate you in anything you have yet to learn, a tutor can be hired if necessary."

"But – but what about my things? My clothes and books and such?"

"I've already sent for them. They should be arriving later on this afternoon."

"But –"

"Wilhelmina, I am quite busy. Anything you that you might need can be easily purchased and shipped. You are much too important to HYDRA's progress at present for you to simply give up and go home."

He crossed to her, cupping her face in his hands. "My dear, if Dr. Zola and I are to solve this quandary that we seem to be in, regarding your abilities, you could play an absolutely pivotal role in our mission." He looked into her eyes, the ice-blue of his irises boring into her own.

"This is what you wanted, Wilhelmina. You have always resented my reluctance to include you in the details of my work. You have gotten your wish now. However hard it might be for you to cope with the tests that shall be performed – and there shall be numerous tests – you must not give up. I have come too far in my mission to stop now."

He spoke gravely, his words soft and measured, but at the same time, utterly cold. She knew he couldn't well be gentle about it – he spoke the truth. How she fit into the equation of whatever it was HYDRA trying to achieve, she only had an inkling – and it was a very weak inkling.

"But I don't understand." She said softly.

"What is there to understand?" he answered flatly. "I have made myself clear, have I not?"

"You've made it clear that you need me for something; for _what_, you've been rather vague. You go on about how valuable I am, but for what, you neglect to say. What is HYDRA working for, what good am I to the Reich if every single test you've given me, I've failed? How can I possibly be useful if so far, I've done absolutely nothing?"

She waited for his reply, but none came. A deep silence seemed to weigh down upon her shoulders, and she watched as his eyes seemed to harden into a thick layer of ice.

"This is not about the Reich, Wilhelmina." His spoke slowly, carefully annunciating each word, as if it was stuck to his tongue.

"Then what is it about?" her voice was firm.

"HYDRA's connection to the Nazi Party – to Hitler – is hanging by a single thread." He answered coldly, the fluidity of his speech restored. He cast a sidelong glance at the portrait that hung over the hearth of the large great-room. "And, our leader wishes to sever that thread."

Mina glanced at the portrait, and shrank back as her eyes met the gruesome skull face. She'd been doing her best to avoid the painting since she had taken residence at the base. Johann smiled grimly.

"I thought that – that you were the leader." She murmured quietly, her tone questioning.

"No, of course not." He answered smoothly. He chuckled quietly as he turned to for the door. "I am just a scientist, my dear. I simply carry out the orders that I am given."

With that, he slipped into the laboratory, the metal door sliding shut behind him, leaving her alone with only the horrid painting and the heavy silence to keep her company.

Sighing inwardly, she crossed the great-room, plopping down into one of the large leather chairs. From where she sat, she could better examine the ugly portrait that loomed before her.

It wasn't really frightening, per say. Just… strange. The angular planes of the face stood out sharply against their crimson backdrop. The blood-red skin was pulled taut across the exaggerated skull-like face, lips pursed in a thin line, the severe under-bite of the jaw giving the face a menacing air.

Despite the rather unsightly condition of the face, its owner seemed very conceited in nature, as if he was very proud of his appearance – he held his chin high, the corner of his lips tugging downward as if suppressing a cruel smirk. Ice-blue eyes glistened beneath hooded eyelids, the severe looking brow-bones intensifying their defiant stare.

A small triangular nose – or what would have been a nose, she supposed – coupled with small, knot-like bumps that served as ears, completed the grotesque looking makeup.

Her eyes traveled downward as she examined the trunk of the figure depicted in the portrait. Broad shoulders and a thick, muscled torso, one arm tucked behind the back, the other outstretched, long gloved fingers splayed across the back of a leather chair.

Behind him, a long banner bedecked with the tentacled skull draped regally, broad rays of sunlight setting the crimson skull-face alight.

"So that's why you look like you do." She murmured, referencing the insignia. "You're supposed to look like him. Huh."

She stood up and walked to the painting, looking up at it in curiosity. "Not exactly a handsome thing, are you?"

Silently, she wondered how he had come to look like that – surely he hadn't been born that way. The blue eyes stared down at her, and she felt a chill run down her spine.

Too blue – clear as ice, yet deep and intense in their color.

Too much like Johann's.

Shaking her head, she brushed the thought away feverishly.

"Stop that." She hissed, chiding herself. She was hallucinating – too many days without sleep. She walked back to her seat, leaning back and staring up at the ceiling listlessly. A low growl resonated from the depths of her stomach.

"Food."

She stood up. "That's what I'll do," she whispered, hoping that by focusing on something else she could keep her mind from wandering back to the portrait. "I'll go find some food."

XXX

"The Führer is not accustomed to being ignored Herr Schmidt."

_Of course he isn't, _he thought blandly, _pity that he was never taught patience_.

"He funds your research because you promised him weapons."

_And I will deliver him weapons. They simply won't be used in the manner that he would like them to be._

The high-pitched voice of the shorter Gestapo man cut into to the monologue.

"You serve at his pleasure. He gave you this facility as a reward for your injuries."

Johann's eye twitched as the man babbled, a proverbial mosquito whining in his ear.

"Reward," he spat, the word like acid in his mouth, "Call it what it is: exile. I no longer reflect his image of Aryan perfection."

He heard the other man scoff, his words dripping with so much arrogance, Johann could practically feel the eye-rolling. "You think this is about appearances?" he snapped bitterly. "Your HYDRA division has failed to deliver so much as a rifle in over a year. _And _we had learned through local intelligence that you had mounted a full-scale incursion into Norway."

The high-pitched voice once again made its presence known, only this time, it was not quite so easy for Johann to bat away his words without a thought.

"The Führer feels – how does he put it? – _the_ _Red Skull has been indulged long enough_."

That was a mistake. He stopped short, the blood boiling within his veins and he could feel his fingers trembling with rage within his gloves. Slowly, he turned to face them, his eyes like ice within their sockets, his entire body rigid with barely contained fury.

"Gentlemen," he looked each and every one of them in the eye, pausing to make a mental note to destroy the young one who was smirking first, meeting their expectant gazes with one of chilling coldness. "You have come to see the results of our work, hmm? Let me show you."

XXX

Her search for vitals was fruitless. Either Johann didn't eat – which, come to think of it, was possible – or any semblance of food had been carefully hidden away in a place she was too lazy to search for her. Briefly, she entertained the idea of searching for the soldiers' canteen, but her hunger vanished when the cultured, articulate voices of high-ranking Gestapo officers bounced off of the metal walls with a sharp crispness.

"_The F__ü__hrer is not accustomed to being ignored."_

…

"_Your HYDRA Division has failed_."

…

"_You serve at his pleasure_."

…

"_The Red Skull has been indulged long enough._"

The last words hung in the air, dead and heavy as the cold silence overtook them. The Red Skull. HYDRA's leader.

_Obviously, he didn't try for originality_, she thought. Poised at the end of the corridor, she peaked around the corner.

Johann stood tall, head erect, jaw set rigidly. He was framed by three Gestapo officers, small and puny in his grand presence.

From the way his fists were clenched, she guessed that he longed to snap them in half like twigs.

"_Gentlemen,_" his voice rang out clear and measured, as if he were holding back much stronger words. "_You have come to see the results of our work_."

She watched as the officers' heads cocked slightly, expectantly, as if they were daring to question his authority.

"_Let me show you_."

Silence followed, other than the hollow 'clop' of jackboots hitting the metal floors. For a moment, she contemplated her options, which there were only two that she could think of.

Either go back to where she had come from – which was rather redundant, considering the only place she was really allowed to wander about was Johann's private quarters – or to follow them to wherever it was they were going.

She pondered silently. Johann had said that the meeting would be held in his laboratory – and that she should make herself scarce.

Staying in his quarters counted as making herself scarce, didn't it?

She could easily view the meeting if she were to enter his quarters through the back entrance, which was less public than the through the laboratory.

Slipping back around the corner, she did her best to avoid the deep, penetrating stares of the HYDRA gunmen, poised in the alcoves in the walls of the corridors, imposing rifles slung across their chests.

Tapping the keypad lightly, the metal door leading in Johann's private quarters slid open, allowing her entrance. Already, she could hear the muffled voices of the officers, growing nearer to the laboratory. She crossed the room and pressed her ear against the wall adjacent to the laboratory. The voices were still very quiet – they had not entered yet.

Quickly, she entered the pass code for the entrance into the laboratory, the door slipping open silently. The laboratory doors were slightly ajar, two soldiers poised before them, preparing to let the men in. Their backs were turned to her, as well as the two scientists who were hunched over the work tables, engrossed in their work. Zola sat at the worktable closest to Johann's desk, pouring over a map, mercifully too absorbed in his work to detect her presence.

Her eyes darted about; at the back of the laboratory was a deep alcove that provided just enough shadow to conceal her. Looming before it was a huge, tarp-covered contraption. Dropping to her knees, she made her way to the back alcove, hunching down into the shadows.

Within several moments of tense silence, the soldiers pulled open the doors, allowing Johann and the three officers to enter. She pulled farther back into the shadows as his deep voice boomed throughout the laboratory.

"Hitler speaks of a thousand-year Reich, yet he cannot feed his armies for a month. His troops spill their blood across every field in Europe but still he is no closer to achieving his goals." With a flourish of his arm, he pulled the tarp away, revealing a hulking, machine-gun-like thing, its barrel pointed directly at the officers.

The tallest one seemed to be stifling a chuckle, the amusement written on his smirking face. "And I suppose you still aim to win this war through magic."

Johann's back was to her, but she could sense his loathing from the way he raised his head to look at the men from the bank of buttons and dials that controlled the weapon. He looked up at them slowly, deliberately, as if daring them to speak again.

"Science," he answered drily, "but I understand your confusion. Great power has always baffled primitive men." His gloved fingers flew across the dials as he spoke, his eyes flickering from the officers to the machine. "HYDRA is assembling an arsenal to destroy my enemies in one stroke. Wherever they are, regardless of how many forces they possess –" He raised his fist, snapping his fingers for emphasis. "All in a matter of hours."

The officers glanced at each other quizzically, as if the entire conversation was all a joke to them. It was obvious that they didn't believe a word he was saying.

"Your enemies?" one said at last.

Disregarding the question, Johann continued on. "My weapons contain enough destructive power to decimate every hostile capital on earth."

Mina felt her heart pounding in her chest. So this was what HYDRA was doing – building weapons. The notion sounded reasonable enough – this was wartime after all, but, the clipped way with which he spoke… and _his _enemies. What need did he have to have enemies if he was only a _scientist_? She glanced over at the third officer, who was hunched over the map that Zola had previously been looking at. Its surface was riddled with red pins, marking various locations.

"Quite simply gentlemen," Johann looked up at them, counting them with his gloved hand. "I have harnessed the power of the gods.

"Thank you, Schmidt." The other officer interrupted, jarring her from her gaze.

"For what?" Johann cast a cursory glance at him.

The officer seemed to be suppressing a smirk. "For proving how obviously mad you are –"

"Berlin is on this map!"

Mina looked up, the third officer rigid with fury, his eyes wide.

"So it is." Johann answered simply.

That wasn't right. Her breaths rattled in her chest, her fingers trembling. Berlin. Johann was a servant of Hitler. Why did he want to destroy Berlin?

His words echoed in the back of her mind. "_Our leader wishes to sever that thread_."

But for him to destroy Berlin – if he spoke the truth about his weapons – he wouldn't simply be destroying Hitler and his ilk – he'd be destroying everyone.

The people she had known, the school where she had gone, the home where she had lived. They all seemed like such trivial things to worry over but – total and utter destruction. The sincerity with which he spoke made it utterly clear. HYDRA was not merely one of the Third Reich's wind-up toys… it was much more.

Suddenly, everything was beginning to fall into place, and it made her stomach churn.

The rifle revved up, rising up on its platform and turning directly toward the officer.

"You will be punished for your insolence," he snapped angrily, his body trembling with rage. "You will be brought before the Führer himself!"

Time seemed to stop. She saw Johann's head move just slightly, his finger poised above the controller. He seemed to be calculating – how close to aim and when to fire. She knew the stance well; he had taught her to shoot a gun like that, always calculating, compensating for her mistakes.

A blinding blast of cobalt light shot into the air, and the officer's body exploded, shards of clothing bursting into the air and fading away to ash, incinerated by the heat of the rifle. She felt the bile rising in her throat. That light – the tesseract. That was what was powering it.

Images of the night she had first held the tesseract flashed through her mind. She had very nearly destroyed those soldiers – had she succeeded, their demise would have been identical to this man's. She clamped her hand over her mouth, holding back the scream that longed to burst from her lips. She wanted to shut her eyes tightly, but they remained wide open, drawn to the horrific scene before her. She could feel tears welling in them, but they didn't spill. She was paralyzed, unable to move. Unable to do anything but stare into that terrible light.

For a moment, the other two officers remained frozen, until finally their better judgment kicked in and they scattered, racing for the entrance.

With a sickening grating noise, the rifle turned and with a quick twist of the dial, fired again. He missed the officer narrowly, but his second shot didn't - shards of cloth or skin burst into the air, quickly incinerated by the heat. The last one ran to the door, yanking hopelessly at the wheel, but it wouldn't budge.

He whipped around, all color gone from his face. He pressed himself up against the door, pushing with all his might but to no avail. He opened his mouth, letting a bloodcurdling scream flood out, only to be cut off sharply by the explosion of the rifle, and within moments, he was gone.

The noise of the rifle died down slowly, as it lowered, back into its original position.

Her limbs shook uncontrollably, her hands clamped over her mouth, unable to breath.

Dr. Zola had pinned himself up against the wall, his eyes glassed over with a look of fear.

And Johann stood straight, perfectly calm, surveying his results with a look of mild boredom.

"My apologies, doctor," He replied to the silence. "But, we both knew that HYDRA could grow no further in Hitler's shadow."

He glanced at the HYDRA scientists who stood ramrod straight, their eyes riveting into the empty space.

"Hail HYDRA." He said simply, and the men echoed his words fiercely, their arms shooting into the air with a sort of robotic precision.

He cast a cursory glance at Zola, who now leaned against the metal wall, supporting his trembling form.

"H –" he swallowed hard and cleared his throat. "Hail HYDRA!"

Johann nodded, smirking slightly. As he proceeded toward the doors, he glanced back.

"Corporal,"

A scientist looked at him sharply. "_Jawohl, mein Herr_,"

"Please remove my niece from the premises." He answered quietly, and continued on.

Her heart froze, and her mouth somehow managed to finds its voice again.

"How in the hell –" her voice cracked, her tone shaky.

Within moments, two scientists had grabbed her trembling shoulders and dragged her up. One smiled at her sweetly and slipped a needle from his coat pocket. Her eyes widened and she kicked out her leg, but the other scientist caught her and gripped tightly as the other one jabbed the point into her arm.

A few moments of tingling pain, and the world seeped into blackness.

XXX

He stared listlessly into his teacup, swirling its contents about, as if hoping that the monotonous action would cause his brain to produce some brilliant idea, although none came. It seemed that nothing could stimulate his niece's newfound abilities – or they were simply trying too hard, but what else was there to do? He pulled the cigarette he had nursed down to the butt out of his mouth, watching the thin, grey-blue tendrils curl into the stale air.

"Sir," Zola's voice echoed in the back of his mind like a droning mosquito. "Sir,"

"Zola," he muttered darkly in confirmation.

"I suppose your niece now knows everything."

"Not hardly." He murmured. "I expected her to make an appearance this afternoon, and thus put on a show worthy of her curiosity." He stood up. "Perhaps I was being cruel by sedating her, but I suppose a chance to create a bit of drama was too tantalizing for me to be straightforward with her. And she is after all, so much more agreeable when she is asleep."

He chuckled softly to himself, turning to gaze out at the snowy abyss beyond his window. Behind him, Zola cleared his throat. "I see that the thread has been severed completely now." He murmured quietly. "She must know now that HYDRA was meant only to be remotely linked to the Nazis, nowhere close to a solid alliance."

"You make us sound rather trivial, doctor." Johann answered lightly, but there was an edge of venom to his voice that made Zola shrink back.

"Not at all, sir. I merely meant that, your goal was never to be equal to Hitler's Reich but… better. A separate entity, and one to be feared, might I add. "

Johann smiled. "Not _my_ goal, Dr. Zola. _The Red Skull's _goal." His voice deepened, creating a mocking air of drama.

"The Re – but sir, you are the –"

"Shh," he pressed a gloved finger to his lips. "My little secret." He answered softly, the corner of his synthetic mouth tugging upward as if in a smile. "We mustn't divulge everything so quickly – it will be far too much for her innocent, little mind to absorb. Besides, with luck we won't have to divulge anything. She's proving to be quite crafty enough to do so on her own."

"Then how do you plan to explain to her your interest in her strange abilities? You've only succeeded in answering why the connection between the Nazis is now non-existent. But if you are to have no connection with the Nazis, what interest should you have in developing such a powerful weapon as she could potentially be?"

His superior simply chuckled. He seemed very nonchalant, relaxed. How he could feel that way, Zola hadn't a clue, as the man had single-handedly murdered three highly decorated officers only a few hours earlier. Although, death seemed to be something of an amusement to the man.

"That is an excellent question, my dear Arnim. One I plan to address momentarily." He glanced at his wrist. "She should be awake by now, I would think."

"It won't work." Zola answered flatly.

Johann turned to eye him, one fabricated eyebrow raised. "And how is that?"

"What you plan to tell her, Herr Schmidt, is that we are a terrorist organization and willingly condone complete and utter destruction. There is no other way to tell it. No matter how saccharinely you tailor it to sound; she will see it as any level-headed person would. She will see you as a mani –"

"Maniac?"

His voice was cold, toneless and dead.

"Well," Zola shifted. "Yes, that is exactly how she will see it."

Johann's eyes narrowed. "And how can you be sure of that?"

"Well because –"

"Because that is the way you see it?" he stepped down from the platform upon which his desk stood, and came to stand before the little scientist. "You see HYDRA as some haphazardly planned weapon factory? Or rather, were you referring to myself, and my utter _insanity, _hmm?"

Zola shrank back, folding in on himself in the broad shadow that Johann's towering form cast.

"Am I merely some lunatic with impossible fantasies of a perfected universe, untainted by this contagious human stupidity?"

He stared down at Zola, who clenched his fists and cleared his throat, as if preparing himself for a verbal beating.

"I do not doubt the genius of your plans, Herr Schmidt. I understand their more gruesome nature with perfect clarity, but I have always felt honored to be a part of their development. I am simply stating that you are trying to explain to a child an engineered apocalypse. Now, _Fraulein _Hofstadter is well beyond her years, but she is still very much a human being with human emotions –"

"I did not think you had any concern for my niece's emotions." Johann answered drily.

Zola sighed, as if resisting his irritation.

"You understand my meaning, sir. What a superior mind sees as genius, a young girl with fleeting passions will see as utter insanity. You plan to destroy the world in order to begin again, to fix what has been broken by years of unbridled destruction by our lesser counterparts. Because your niece has not been brought up to believe in a revolution on such a grand scale – it is only natural that she will not be able to wrap her head around it. HYDRA's goal is to bring about a new era of great minds. Blood will be shed and lives will be lost, as with every revolution. But, given the way in which your niece responded to our activities at Norway – she could not fathom why you would want to slaughter an entire village. Think of how she will respond to such a mass-genocide, such as the one HYDRA is organizing."

"I have considered all of which you have mentioned, Dr. Zola, in the past week in which my niece has been present here." Johann now gazed out into the snowy Alps, his cigarette holder grasped lightly between his gloved fingers. He exhaled sharply. "I am not so soulless as to not first think very closely about the repercussions of her involvement in my work."

He crossed to his desk, brushing his hand over the array of blueprints. "Although it pains me to take such drastic measures, I believe I may have developed a solution to the small issue that will undoubtedly present itself. It is inevitable that Wilhelmina will respond to my plans in exactly the way in which you described. It is simply in her nature to see destruction as a force of evil. But," he glanced up at Zola.

"I believe that if I can quell her emotions for a long enough time, she will be able to overlook the slightly darker side of my work."

"And how do you plan to do that?" Zola inquired softly.

"Quite simply. She already knows that she will not be returning to Berlin any time soon, therefore she should have no reason to think otherwise. I believe that the longer I keep her here, away from outside contact, she will have no choice but to accept her fate."

Zola looked up at him quizzically. "So you are forcing her against her will to 'take our side', as it were?"

Johann sighed. "'Forcing' is such a strong terminology, don't you think, Arnim?"

"But that is what you intend to do. You intend to isolate here her until you can carry out your plans, in which case she will have absolutely no choice but to live with what you are doing and accept it."

"In a manner."

Zola sighed. "I suppose it will work. But there is just one problem."

"And that would be?"

"What if she tries to escape? She managed to follow us to Norway _and _broke into your laboratory without any detection until it was already too late. If she is dissatisfied with her isolation here, no one will be able to keep her from attempting and possibly succeeding to escape. And from what I have seen, she doesn't seem to be the type to give up easily."

"Indeed not, but I believe I have a solution to that as well."

He paced behind his desk, stretching his legs languidly, his strides cat-like and graceful. "Wilhelmina's loyalty to me will compensate for her rebellious streak. I am the only thing she has left, now that both of her parents are dead, and she knows that. She will not test me. This is what she always wanted, Dr. Zola. To be part of HYDRA, to be a part of my work. She yearns for my praise, and will do most anything to get it. I have spent many years contemplating this moment, doctor. I have sheltered and protected her from the imperfections of this world; I have not allowed her the chance to develop petty relationships that would make her feel tied to it in anyway. She has absolutely nothing to lose; no close friends, no puppy-loves to weep over. She can argue against that fact as much as she pleases, but deep down she is aware that she is alone."

He glanced up at Zola, who had fell silent, eyes staring into his shoes.

"Except for me. I am the only individual left of value to her. Perhaps it is cruel that I use her affections in this way, but it is for the best. With time, as the finer details of my plan begin to fall into place, she will not have to be forced to accept it. She will do so on her own accord, and I expect her to be much happier with her decision."

He straightened his jacket, running his free hand through his fabricated dark hair, before gently probing at his jawbone, easing the synthetic material into place.

"Now if you'll excuse me, doctor. I have some business to attend to."

Without another word, he slipped past the scientist, head held high with a defiant and determined gaze.

As his superior slipped into his private quarters, Zola raised his head, sighing heavily.

"Poor thing." He murmured, and a slight twinge of guilt coursed through his veins. Perhaps if he had ignored her presence that night in Norway, that young girl would have escaped, gone back home and stayed well away from this mess. If she had been smart, she wouldn't have stopped at Berlin. Though he somewhat condoned what Schmidt was planning to do, he couldn't help but feel afraid. Zola recognized that his superior was indeed engineering an organized apocalypse, one that would decimate the earth, killing millions as easily as if they were flies being batted away.

He didn't mind the idea of taking over the entire world. He licked his lips. Power was something he'd so rarely had; he'd been stepped on for most of his life by Nazi higher-ups and the like. Schmidt had given him free reign over his scientists and his army; whatever weapon he could possibly dream up was given life. Schmidt had even agreed to fund the construction of Zola's robotic body, intrigued at the idea of eternal life, although the idea was in immense need of fine-tuning. Vengeance upon the idiotic men who had snubbed him was an opportunity far too precious to pass up.

But, he had been closely surveying his superior, and as the days past, he grew more and more weary of the way in which Johann carried himself.

He was arrogant, extraordinarily arrogant. But he always had been, since the day Zola had been introduced to him. But he was so _sure _of himself, so sure of success. There were easily a thousand ways in which his plan could fail miserably, and yet, he paid no attention to them. He knew that he would be victorious.

To the Nazi Regime, Johann Schmidt was a madman; they knew he could easily wreak havoc upon their perfectly organized system, and thus exiled him to his main base in the Alps. They figured that the longer they could keep him occupied with his machines, the easier it would be for them to keep him out of all military affairs. They simply didn't realize he wasn't at all mad.

He wasn't insane. The sanity of himself or his plans was of no consequence.

"Because he can do it." Zola whispered. "He will take over the world and crush every one of those fools single-handedly. He'll destroy everything without a single thought."

He glanced up at the picture of the young girl that sat on Schmidt's desk, her smiling, angelic face, the picture of irony in the middle of the dark, metallic laboratory.

"She must be the loneliest child in the world."

XXX

He sat down on the edge of the bed, reaching out to stroke her curls with a gloved hand. She lay curled up in a ball, his leather coat pulled up to her chin, her eyes closed.

"Uncle," she murmured sleepily.

"Are you awake now, my dear?"

Slowly she sat up, pulling the jacket closer around her.

"I had brought you blankets," he pointed out, glancing at the stack of linens resting on the bedside table.

"I like this." She replied. "Those were itchy."

Johann chuckled softly and drew her into his arms. He waited patiently as she burrowed into his chest, and he wrapped the coat and his arms around her.

"When you were a very little girl," he said softly, "When your mother was still alive, you would beg me whenever I visited to be allowed to wear this coat and to put on my cap. You would parade around pretending to be a little soldier. You could never salute correctly; the brim always fell over your eyes and you would inevitably trip over the hem." He smiled slightly, as if reminiscing.

"Yes." Mina said softly, and she pulled away from his grasp. "But that is not what you are here to talk about, is it?"

He sighed heavily. "No. It isn't."

"You are here to tell me why you killed three men. You are here to tell me why Berlin was on that map. You are here to tell me why I am here."

"Yes."

"Then please go on."

He sighed again, turning his gaze to the window, staring out into the brightening moon. "You are not going back to Berlin, Wilhelmina."

"I know."

"Do you know why?"

"I think so. You want me here because that you think I have some otherworldly power, bestowed upon me by this tesseract thing. Your leader thinks that I could be a weapon for HYDRA. Or does your leader even know who I am?"

"Yes, and yes he is aware of your presence here."

"Then my question for you is, what need do you have for now, now that you have – how did you say it – _severed the thread_? You are no longer connected the Nazis, you no longer have to play by their rules or do what they say. What need do you have of me if not to support the war, and what do you plan to do now that HYDRA governs itself?"

"That part is perhaps a bit more difficult to explain."

"I'm sure you'll find a way." She answered drily, sitting back in the bed. "Please go on."

Johann folded his hands in his lap, his heart beating heavily in his chest. "Do you remember when you first came to me, after your mother died? You had immense difficulty sleeping, so I would tell you stories to distract you from your grief."

She nodded, her eyes hard and cold, much like his own. He didn't like the way they looked, on her soft face.

"Yes, I remember. You told me that you were going to change the world someday, and that all of the bad things would be erased – there would be no war or crime or disorder of any sort to ruin the world. Everything would be perfect and wonderful. You said that I would be your princess and that I could have anything I could ever want." She recited the synopsis of his fairytales robotically, the words rolling off her tongue as if he had put them there himself.

"Well, I did not realize you had remembered them so vividly." He answered.

"I thought you were making it up." She replied darkly. "Although from what I've seen since coming here, I suppose that anything is rational." She glanced back at the entrance to laboratory. "You plan to destroy the world, don't you?"

Johann opened his mouth to speak but she cut him off, her voice rising with anger. "Don't tell me otherwise – you said it yourself. Your weapons contain enough power to destroy anything and everything. Berlin was on that map, Uncle, and God knows what how many other cities. Is that what HYDRA is about? Unbridled destruction? Is that what your perfect world looks like, a burning trail of wreckage?"

Johann bit his lip, fighting back a harsher response. He could not afford to be cold to her, not now. He had to approach the subject as gently as possible, in order to hopefully win her over. He only had one ally, and that was his true identity. The longer she didn't know who he was – or rather, _what _he was – he cast a glance at the portrait – the better. If he could convince her that he was merely following orders, perhaps she would soften.

"Will you let me speak?" he said at last. He didn't allow her a chance to answer. "Wilhelmina, I understand that this is all very difficult for you, but you must have faith in HYDRA. And in me."

He edged closer to her, more or less pulling her into his arms. She resisted him for a few moments, but he was stronger and forced her into his grasp.

"Wilhelmina," he said softly, rubbing his gloved hand against the small of her back, urging her tensed spine to relax. "Please listen to me, my sweet."

She looked up at him, eyes surprisingly dry. "What?" she spat bitterly, permitting him to continue.

"My dear, the world is a terrible, filthy place, overridden with arrogant fools thinking that they are superior with only the finest weapons and resources and the most sophisticated of minds. Hitler is not of any semblance of sophistication. He kills off Jews as if they were rats, an infestation. Josef Stalin kills off whoever he pleases, paranoid that a lesser individual will attempt to overtake him and perhaps succeed. The Americans think that wildly waving their flag about and trampling into Europe's business will put an end to all wars and create an eternity of peace. Quite simply, man is of the superiority of apes. Mina, darling,"

He cupped her face into his hands, forcing her to look into his eyes. "It is HYDRA's goal to put an end to this nonsensical war, this hatred and greed and corruption, twisting in men's souls. We plan to create new race of superior men, men who are above such petty emotions, men who govern themselves scientifically and by fact, rather than their flailing passions. With that ideal in mind, we could create a world never to be ravaged by hunger or poverty or war. A true era of perfected peace. Now, is that such a terrible thing to ask for?"

His voice had lowered to the softest tone; at the start of his reverie, his voice had been deep and majestic, as if a preacher beginning a sermon. Now, he spoke softly and measuredly, his tone lilting and sweet, and for a moment, Mina felt as if she were slowly being rocked into a pleasant dream, wrapped in the beauty and majesty of Johann's intricately woven tales.

Amid the shroud of saccharine bliss though, was an image of darkness and bloodshed and death, cutting through the sweet haze like the Grim Reaper's scythe, slicing it in two. A perfected world, one of superior men; it sounded lovely on paper. But how was such a perfect world to be achieved? Fighting war with war; it only made sense. Less superior men, in Johann's mind at least, would rebel, fight back. They would not give in so easily to HYDRA's might.

"And you plan to achieve this perfect world by killing off thousands to prove your point." Her voice was soft, yet matter-of-fact. The blur of images that shot through her brain muddled her thoughts, and the energies devoted to simply deciphering the mess of aftermaths and wreckage drained her words of all emotion. Pieces began to fall into place as his words echoed in the back of her mind. "You plan to use me, if you can get the tesseract to work on me, as a weapon, don't you?"

Johann smiled at her sweetly, as if the whole notion was some fantastical surprise that he had been waiting for her to unravel. He stroked her cheek with the back of his gloved hand, and she flinched away.

"Don't you see, my dear? Once Dr. Zola and I have harnessed your powers, you could be absolutely pivotal to our success. That is why I cannot allow you to return to Berlin. But, is it not wondrous to know that you will be playing the starring role in our life-altering revolution? Don't you find it splendid, darling?"

As he spoke, his voice rose, his azure irises glittering with an almost childish delight. It made her stomach churn. She could feel the bile rising in her throat, her breaths turning to forced gasps.

"You – you want me to kill people." She said slowly, her voice cracking as she fought back the wave of nausea.

As if noticing her distress, he attempted to pull her closer but she pulled back a look of disgust on her face.

"That's what you want, for me to be your killing-machine, to murder hundreds of thousands of innocent people?"

Again he smiled, his teeth brilliant white against the pale greyish-white hue of his face. "Mina, I've told you before. People die in wars; innocent lives will be lost and blood will be shed. But would you care so much if you knew that it was for the greater good? My dear, you will be creating a better world, a perfect world. Everything will be wonderful then; doesn't the good cancel out the bad, in this case? Think of all the power that you could have – all the things you could do or the places you could see. You will be fighting for a noble cause, my dear girl."

"A noble cause?" she snapped, rising from her seat on the bed. "You think you're fighting for a noble cause? You plan to destroy every country on earth, and with it more innocent people than can possibly be imagined, all to achieve some idyllic world, some utopia. Your fighting a revolution that cannot possible be won and shouldn't be fought in the first place. You want to help people? Go and donate your money to an orphanage, a shelter. Stop the Nazis from persecuting and torturing, stop Stalin from killing countless innocents. You don't win wars by creating new ones! You don't create life from death! I don't give a damn if some skull-faced lunatic thinks he can walk all over the world killing everyone and everything just so he can get his way! I'll not just sit here and allow you or your beloved _Red Skull_ or whatever the hell his name is, to use me as your killing-machine!"

Her breaths came shallow and ragged, her entire body trembling with fury or fear, she didn't know which. Her eyes were pinned on Johann's, the azure blue of his eyes somehow more vivid and concentrated in the dim lamplight of the room. His shoulders were set rigidly, his teeth grating against each other. He rose from his seat, gloved fists clenched.

"Wilhelmina,"

He spoke so quietly, so softly and tonelessly. Yet she could easily recognize the fury in his voice. His volume never escalated when he was angered, he never yelled and rarely lashed out. But now, there was a sort of feral and unconstrained animosity about him, as if he were only barely containing the rage that bubbled up within him.

Without a thought, she bolted away from him, her feet skittering across the slippery metal tiles as she scrambled for the entrance into the main hall. She was so close – if she could get away now, get out of the base entirely – perhaps there was a shred of hope.

His arm came across her chest like a steel rod, slamming into her ribcage and crushing the air from her lungs.

"Let me go!" she screamed, struggling against him, but his grip was of iron.

"You know that I cannot do that, Wilhelmina."

"I don't want any part of your plans, let me go!"

She lashed out at him with her fists, but he caught them expertly, grabbing her arms and forcing against the wall.

"Wilhelmina, it is useless. You cannot leave here – you are too valuable to us."

She continued to fight, kicking out with her feet, her teeth gnashing. With a solid push, he threw her back, blood streaming from her mouth as her teeth came down hard on her tongue.

"Give up, you stupid child!" his tone held a stinging venom to it, the fury bright and burning in his eyes, but it only provoked her more.

"_I am not a child_!" she hissed and delivered crushing kick to his abdomen, throwing him back. He reeled on her, his entire body trembling with fury. As he closed on, she whipped out with her fist, catching his jaw, his head snapping back.

Time seemed to stop, their movements dissolving into slow-motion. She watched in horror as he turned to face her, a gloved hand clutching at his cheek.

Just beneath his eye, it seemed as if the skin had tugged downward, leaving a vivid crimson color in the hollows of his eye.

Her first thought was blood, and she screamed. As he staggered forward, she raced from the room, the exit sliding open as she advanced.

Only to be met by two leather-clad soldiers, rifles slung menacingly across their chests. Like wild cats picking off their prey, they yanked her up, each holding an arm, and began to drag her off.

She tore her throat to shreds, screaming and screaming and screaming. And all the while, Johann, who had recovered and dusted himself off, stood grinning, his eyes glittering with a savage delight.

"It is for your own good, my dear." He murmured softly, so quietly she could barely hear him, but then again, she didn't want to. "You will learn to accept it in time."

Dr. Zola, who had entered from the laboratory, approached him silently, his face grim.

He came to stand beside his superior, and glanced up at him as the Mina's screeching grew fainter. He cleared his throat and Johann glanced down at him.

"I see she took it well." Zola replied to the silence curtly. His comment was rewarded with a blood-curdling glare.


	13. Harsh Realities

**My dearest, most esteemed readers. I present to you quietly, Kapitel Dreizehn. Or, in other, non-German words, Chapter thirteen. My dears, now has come the time in which this little tale will take a pivotal turn….**

**The time has come for our Wilhelmina to evade the iron grip of the Red Skull, whose true appearance she is oblivious to, at present.**

**I know, I know. *SUSPENSE***

**Do excuse me, whilst I allow myself a maniacal chuckle. My apologies; I do love a good cliff-hanger. Anywho, I promised bigger and better things last chapter – I do hope the film-scene and the several intense dialogue scenes and the ending brawl, followed by some screaming and a smartical line from our little Arnim delivered enough action, at least for the time-being.**

**To all of those who have been waiting for the arrival of the American forces, rejoice now. You shall have your moment soon. Very soon. Somewhere within the chapter AFTER the next one, because I make no promises, but MAYBE in the next, depending on my mood and how the plotline of the next chapter pans out. Thank you as always to my devoted readers/reviewers, in particular MusicWolf7, Kukapetal, and Blackbird71. Your support and feedback are precious to me.**

**Now, for the real drama to begin. Enjoy. And review.**

**Yours Very Sincerely,**

**Jasper Q. Blood**

**Translations from German Dialogues:**

_**Sie, herein dort, wachen dummes Madchen auf! - **_**You, in there, wake up foolish girl!**

_**Aufwachen –**_** Wake up**

1942

HYDRA Base – The Alps

The first movement of Beethoven's Fifth sounded majestically from the phonograph, complementing the blizzard warring outside the huge windows of his private quarters. Stretched out like a cat along one of the black leather chaise-lounges, he half-heartedly eyed the wall of monitors, giving him a perfect display of every area of the base. A push of button on the small control panel before him, and the screens flickered to show him one, concentrated image.

A lonely girl, sitting cross-legged on the metal floor of a containment cell, blue sparks crackling from her fingertips.

Johann took a drag from his long cigarette-holder, releasing curling tendrils of smoke into the air. The girl had been amusing herself by creating small crackles of static for the last several hours, but the minute anyone approached her, all traces of electricity vanished and she sank back into her corner, hands folded and eyes closed. 24 hours. 24 hours she had spent simply sitting there, utterly wasting precious seconds of his time that he would never get back. Soldier upon soldier upon scientist upon scientist he had sent to interrogate her – first simply trying to converse with her, then to interrogate her, then even to threaten her with force – all to simply stop being a child and to resign herself that she would never leave – never escape the fate which she had now destined herself for.

The fact was that he needed her. A god-like entity in the form of a seemingly innocent human being, a child no less. To possess such awesome power – to be able to inflict it on thousands. The world would crumble at his fingertips and not a shot would have been fired.

He had spent countless days since she had arrived there studying every earthly being who had ever possessed the tesseract's infinite power. Every single one of them had been capable of bringing about an apocalyptic-level of destruction with barely a flick of the hand. The chaos caused by the Norse gods – it was unimaginable. Why would he bother wasting countless lives in a typical military battle that no doubt would be met by imbecilic nations with their puny armies, all too eager to run into war – when he could wipe out an entire continent in a matter of hours with _one_ _single girl_?

The world would be at its knees – everyone would know who they were dealing with, the strength of the power they were up against – no one would dare rebel. It was perfect – he'd quite literally be able to waltz into every society and take it by storm, hardly lifting a finger to do so.

He only wished it had been him who had picked up that object as if it were plastic.

He ran a crimson, long-fingered hand across the smooth surface of his skull, his teeth grating against each other.

"Herr Schmidt,"

He glanced up to see the little scientist standing over him. He sighed heavily. "Any progress, Doctor?"

Zola bit his lips and shook his head, resignedly. "None, sir. The girl is adamant. To put it in her exact words, she would rather die than support our cause."

Schmidt arched the brow-bone of a hooded azure eye. "That's a bit dramatic don't you think, doctor?"

Zola shrugged.

He sighed irritably. "Forgive me; my understanding of the sixteen-year-old female's psychology is still so primitive."

"Your understanding of it is better than mine, sir, I can assure you."

Johann laid back on the chaise, stretching his arms and folding them behind his head.

"Then we will simply have to create a bit of drama, won't we Doctor Zola? To perhaps sweeten the deal, as it were."

Zola looked quizzical. "What deal, sir?"

Johann grinned devilishly, the blue glow of the monitors before him giving his bright, white teeth a chilling gleam. "The deal we are going to make with her, Doctor. Or perhaps it is too wicked. Though manipulation seems the only way to prod her to make up her mind."

"What do you intend to do, then?"

"I intend to die, Dr. Zola."

The scientist blinked. "P – Pardon sir?"

Johann chuckled. "Forgive me, doctor – I mean, Johann Schmidt is going to die. The Red Skull has chosen to kill him off, as his usefulness has run its course. You see now why I chose to keep my – alter-ego, as it were – under wraps for the time being?"

He placed a cigarette in his holder, the orange light of his lighter flickering in the darkness. He blew a cloud of smoke into the air.

"Send one of the higher-ranking officers – have him tell her – oh, what shall he say – ah, yes."

He smiled. "Have him tell her that – the Red Skull grows impatient; he is not pleased with the limited progress Johann Schmidt has made with her – her refusal to comply to his demands has halted all advances in the productivity of the Tesseract. Her role in our plans is absolutely pivotal – a human wielding such infinite power would easily deter any rebellion from our lesser counterparts that we wish to eliminate, thus allowing us to significantly decrease the number of soldiers that will be lost in the final movement of our revolution."

He steepled his fingers. "Have him tell her that she will be given two choices; if she agrees to support HYDRA's cause, her life and her uncle's will be spared, and in the end when we have completed what we have set out to do, she will be rewarded rather richly. On the other hand, if she chooses to remain adamant and deny us the support that we request, her _dear_ uncle will be executed by firing squad at dawn. _He_ will die, and what's more, his death will be rather useless anyway, for she'll still end up supporting us. Once the man is done away with, she will be contained here and forced to help HYDRA's cause. Either way she chooses, she will side with us in the end."

He glanced up at Zola. "Your opinion, doctor?"

Zola looked dumbfounded. "I – I – you mean, you would – well, I – I suppose it is rather brilliant. Albeit… a bit uh… drastic, don't you think?"

"Not at all. In fact, I find it completely necessary. It is absolutely vital that we initiate this revolution as soon as possible – the sooner we can find how to stimulate her abilities, the better off we will be. My main concern at present is annihilating the Americans – and Hitler's – forces. The Americans are the only obstacle, what with their beloved 'star-spangled man' as they've dubbed him, that stand in our way – it would seem that they are intent to cause us as much annoyance as they possibly can. The Nazis will no doubt welcome their invasion – surely Hitler has caught wind of our intents and hopes to crush them. But we shall not let them. If being successful in our mission, Zola, means tugging at an utterly juvenile little girl's heartstrings, then so be it. I haven't the patience to tolerate her insolence."

"But how do you know she will choose to spare your life?" Zola interrupted.

Johann looked up at him, a cold glassiness gleaming in his eyes. "Because I am the only thing she has, Zola. I understand that I've said that before, but her loyalty to me runs deep. She rejected our mission because she believes that we will be committing genocide. That is not entirely untrue, but once we have harnessed her powers – the damage she could do only once would be enough to shut down any trace of resistance. I think her tune will change when she realizes that we may not have to murder a single soul to get we want."

He stood up, striding towards the windows. He stared out into the raging snowstorm, the moon glinting off the glass. "But any progress is impossible as long as she remains so childishly stubborn. She will not make the choice on her own; therefore we must force her to. She will bend to our will. I have raised her since the day of her mother's death – I am the only soul on this earth that has offered her a trace of true affection, true interest. If she so chose to destroy me, the guilt of having done so would destroy her. She will comply."

Zola was silent. Johann turned to face him, his face merely a silhouette in the shadows of the moon.

The scientist sighed. "If that is what you think is appropriate, sir. When shall we do it?"

"Immediately."

XXX

She stared down into her lap, absently fiddling with the hem of her dress. She felt strangely distant – unable to express any emotion. The mixture of rage and fear no longer bubbled up within her; she felt empty. Fatigue or hunger gnawed at her insides but her muscles remained motionless, her mouth voiceless. She remembered screaming as her captors had dragged her farther and farther away from the grinning monster that had overcome the man her Uncle was. It felt as if it had happened years ago. They had thrown her into a concrete room and locked her in, the only scrap of light leaking in from a barred window. She had sobbed until no more tears could flow and the harsh reality of it all had made itself abundantly clear.

It was madness – no one could possibly ever achieve what these people set out to do. They intended to wipe out entire populations in search of only the finest human specimens to create some flawless world from scratch.

The insanity of it sickened her – but the fact that her uncle, the man who had devoted every ounce of his energy to improving her quality of life, the man who had taken her under his wing and had given her the utmost affection – to know that he whole-heartedly agreed with every evil HYDRA intended to commit…

It felt as if an icy, deadly grip had taken hold of her heart and wrenched it from her chest.

She closed her eyes, focusing on the imaginary glow of the tesseract that she feared would forever be imprinted on the backs of her eyelids. She could feel the tingling of its power coursing ever so faintly through her veins and into her fingertips and small blue crackles began to dance along her skin. She urged the power to come, stronger and hotter beneath her flesh. Large sparks flared up from her fingers and smoke curled up into the air. She squeezed her eyes shut, directing all of her energy into keeping the flame alive.

Every time she had undergone testing in her uncle's laboratory, she would reach this point – where the flames felt as if they would leap off her hands like fireworks – but they would swiftly falter and die, winking from existence.

But this time, it felt different – hotter, more concentrated. She eased open her eyes to watch as the flamers grew brighter and bigger, blooming into huge flowers of fire. Beads of sweat trickled down her temples but she willed it to keep growing, stronger and more powerful.

The flames writhed, dissolving into serpentine-like shapes, gnashing and swirling in the air. Light voices tingled in the back of her head, chanting in a unified sing-songish language. They grew louder and louder, the flames brighter and brighter, until the fire exploded from her palms like miniature fireworks, and one singular voice broke through the din in her mind.

"_Bearer of the Tesseract_," the voice was rich and multi-layered, echoing in her mind with perfect clarity. "_Chosen one, rise up, defeat these foolish mortals who dare abuse the power of Odin. The Gods of Asgard only grant their magic to the worthy – prove yourself to us and feel the might of the Jewel of His Majesty's treasure room – the divine fire only survives in those who honor what is good and righteous. Rise up, rise up, rise up – "_

A loud banging sounded somewhere in the back of her mind and the voices vanished – like a whisper on the wind and they were gone.

"_Sie, herein dort, wachen dummes Mädchen auf!"_

The flames vanished instantly, as a blond-haired officer poked his head through the doorway. He gave her a saccharine smile.

"Good evening, my lady." He proffered his cap in a comical manner, the sarcasm dripping from his words. "Might I have a word?"

In reply, she made sure to perfectly articulate each syllable of a string of words that would have garnered applause from her uncle.

The officer clucked his tongue. "Where did you learn to speak like that, little girl?"

"Your boss."

He chuckled, kneeling down before her. "Well then, I think you'll find what I have to say quite interesting."

She raised a brow. "Really? I find that most doubtful. I have no interest to hear what any of you have to say. You're only the sixth or seventh to come here and beg for my assistance, which seems almost futile at this point, since I've succeeding in accomplishing absolutely nothing. I am as useful to you as you are to Hitler. So why should I bother listening to you when _that_ in itself will accomplish nothing?"

Again, he chuckled. "You are too modest, _schatz_. I would hardly classify the little fireworks display you put on a few moments ago as 'nothing'."

She stared at him blankly.

"Ah, I see. Don't want your little secret getting spread around. Don't worry – it's quite safe with me." He smiled. "So, your uncle taught you how to swear like that. Very impressive."

"I do my best." She answered through gritted teeth. "What do you want?"

"Well, let's put it this way – I think you'll be more than interested in what I have to say, because if you don't, your uncle won't be around very much longer."

Her eyes darted up. "What do you mean?"

"Well you see, Herr Skull grows impatient with your uncle's little charade; he promised him that he would have a human weapon, yet he is unable to deliver that promise because _you_, madam, are refusing to support us. Now, imagine Herr Skull's displeasure when your uncle reports to him that his promised weapon has not come through? You must understand that the Red Skull is not a forgiving man. Your uncle will be punished for his inadequate service – _severely_. Now would you want that?"

She blinked once, her mouth suddenly dry. "You're lying."

"Ah, but I am not, Miss. I simply have orders to tell you what I am telling you now – and after all, would it not be an insult to lie about a dead man?"

Mina remained silent, her fingers trembling in her lap. The officer smiled at her sweetly.

"Although he may not be forgiving, Herr Skull believes in fair play. We will not force you to do anything – the choice is yours. Help us, and your dear uncle will be spared. Refuse to help us, and Herr Schmidt will be executed by firing squad at dawn – an execution you will be present for; we wouldn't want you to miss his final hours, after all. But, I highly suggest you choose the latter – it would be useless for you to refuse as, either way, you _will _support us. Whether or not you choose for your uncle to die is of no consequence to Herr Skull. Herr Schmidt is merely a scientist – he can be easily replaced. You, on the other hand, are not quite so dispensable."

He cleared his throat. "So, those are you options. Help us, Herr Schmidt lives, and you will remain on the base in relative comfort; if you are successful in aiding us in our mission, you can live out your life in a place of high status and luxury in the new world. Don't help us, Herr Schmidt dies, and you will be locked away in a containment cell for the rest of your days, or until we have no more use for you. Easy enough, or shall I simplify the matter further?"

She stared at him for a moment, unable to speak.

"So you plan to kill him, just to spite me?"

"Only if you choose it, madam."

She shook her head. "No… no, you won't kill him. You can't kill him – I've seen the power he has over you, over everyone; you've watched him destroy cities, people. You fear him."

"I do not fear him, madam; I respect him. But in answer to your question, I respect the Red Skull more. Herr Schmidt might be my superior, but Herr Skull is his. Whatever amount of power your uncle has garnered in his service to HYDRA can quickly be eliminated along with his life. If you do not believe me, you can learn the hard way. Just say no, and you'll be present tomorrow morning to watch your uncle die. I doubt you'll be so confident then when he's looking into your eyes, wondering why his loyal niece has now thrown him to the wolves. You wouldn't dare do it – you might hate us, madam, but the guilt of murdering your only remaining relative will have a far more profound effect on you."

She glared at him with as much hatred as she could muster. "Because you know _so much_ about me." She spat.

The officer turned away, this time without a smirk or chuckle to accompany him. "You will be given till dawn to make your decision. Choose wisely, Miss. You'll only be given one chance."

The door slammed shut with a loud clanging, and she was left alone in the dark silence of the cell, only a faint trace of light leaking in from the barred window, accompanied by the eerie howling of the alpine wind. She felt tears sting her eyes.

They couldn't kill him. They simply couldn't. But why then would the officer lie to her if he had no reason to? He had no personal connection to Johann, or to her. He was simply a soldier. He followed orders; he didn't manipulate a girl he didn't even know.

So if they were telling the truth – if they would kill him…

She was torn, her heart raging within her chest. To save her uncle meant to destroy the world. And she would be the one to destroy it. They meant to use her as a weapon, a killing-machine, and God only knew how many people they meant to destroy. But to kill her uncle meant forced servitude, in which the world would still crumble beneath her unwilling fingertips.

Either way, it was hopeless. She was one mere child among a sea of zealous madmen destined to make Gods out of themselves, too brainwashed by this 'Red Skull' to realize that they too were only _men_, _mortals_.

There was absolutely nothing she could do to stop them, and she was a fool if she thought there was. It was truly and utterly hopeless.

The words of the strange voice rang in the back of her mind. _Rise up; defeat these foolish mortals who dare abuse the power of Odin_.

Did they mean her, was she the chosen one, was she meant to defeat HYDRA? Was that what the tesseract wanted of her, was that why it had graced her with these freakish abilities that night in the laboratory? And if it did, why had it taken them away from her, why had it all but ceased to exist within her veins, each spark winking away the minute she attempted to utilize its power?

_Rise up, rise up, rise up, and prove your worth to the Gods of Asgard._

She stared down into her hands, the tips of her fingers glowing faintly with blue light.

_Rise up, rise up, rise up, rise up, rise up._

The light disappeared, and she was left in cold darkness as night fell upon the Alps. Only the waning rays of the dawn would give her sight again.

"Someday," she whispered, half to herself and half to whoever listened just beyond the door. "Someday, '_Herr Skull_', I will find you and I will kill you. For uncle, and for the world. Even if I am _just a little girl_."

XXX

"_Aufwachen_," the voice of a soldier echoed from behind the metal door. The peachy rays of the barely risen sun flooded into the cell, stinging her eyes, which were dry and sleepless, staring into the depths of the concrete walls. The door swung open with a low creaking and two guards filed in, standing on each side of the door. The officer who had spoken to her the night before followed them in, with a pair of shackles.

"Have you made your decision, _meine Fraulein_?" he inquired, smiling lazily.

"I hope my uncle shoots you." She answered, clearly. She was rewarded with a sour scowl from the officer, and she bit back a smirk.

"So you have chosen to help us, then?"

"Only if you vow that my uncle's life will be spared."

"I cannot vow anything on the Red Skull's accord, although the execution will be called off for today. Your uncle will be released from confinement."

"You imprisoned him too?"

"I didn't, but those in higher places than I did. But I can assure you, he is in one piece. We will take you back to his private quarters. Surely, he will wish to thank you for your cooperative behavior."

"My uncle does not thank me," she answered drily. "I am too juvenile to be worthy of his thanks."

"Then perhaps he shall praise you for your intelligent decision."

"He does not praise stupidity or desperateness, the qualities with which this decision has been made."

The officer glared at her levelly as he hauled to her feet. "Surely he will not praise a foul mood, either."

She considered replying with, 'The only thing he'll be praising are my fists when he takes a look at what he's done to my ribcage,' but thought better of it and kept silent.

Her body ached inwardly, as if the very thought of the last evening's brawl made her bruises throb. Her wrists were cuffed and she was brought into the corridor, intense light flooding in from the transparent glass wall opposite her, giving her a view straight down into the heart of the mountains, the snow glistening in the morning sun. She felt her fingers trembling and she clenched her hands, anxiety trickling into her veins.

She supposed she had nothing to fear, but she couldn't help but be uneasy. Had her uncle known that he would perhaps be killed if she did not help them, and if so, was that why he had behaved in such a hostile manner toward her?

Of course, he had had every right to be furious with her – she had never, ever spoken so boldly to him. She'd talked back plenty of times, but he usually batted it aside, preferring to take vengeance on her by bogging her down with seemingly endless household tasks. But never, ever had he physically taken out the brunt of his rage on her. Aside from the occasional slap to the face or a harsh lecture, he'd never damaged her in the way that he had that night.

It was so unlike him, and it frightened her to the core.

Of course, everything that she had learned frightened her, sickened her. She felt so twisted and contorted – had they been lying or telling the truth – would they really have killed him? Did any of it mean anything or was it all lies?

She felt a knot growing in the pit of her stomach – what if everything her uncle had ever told her was a lie? It was highly probable, considering that everything she had believed for so long seemed to be unraveling by the day, the ugly truth revealing itself.

Every aspect of the life she had taken for granted for so long was crumbling, falling apart before her eyes, peeling away layer after layer.

It seemed as if only yesterday she had been a cocky, but no less naïve young girl, content to pass the days in utter ignorance of everything going on in the world around her. She was more concerned with fulfilling Johann's never-ending list of chores – _perfect, perfect, perfect. Sit up straight, don't slouch, smile more often, scowl less, remember to practice your piano, finish your algorithms, recite this passage in Latin, your face would be much so lovelier if you didn't let your mouth ruin it, practice, practice, practice!_

"Madam, what are you mumbling?"

Her eyes darted up suddenly. "Excuse me?"

The officer looked at her quizzically. "You were mumbling something about practicing, my dear."

She bit her lip, holding back a scowl as the officer smirked at her, amused.

"Forgive me, my lady." He answered, chuckling. "It is rather evident; the high standards your uncle holds you to."

"Flattered." She answered curtly, imitating the officer's superior tone. "That was the goal, obviously."

"To be recognized for your perfection, of course. You were destined to be a leader of HYDRA."

At this, she could not conceal her surprise. "Leader?" she whispered.

"Well, of course. Why else would we find so much value in you? Of course, your unique but no less invaluable abilities are what interest us most profusely at this time. But it was always the intent of Herr Skull to incorporate you into HYDRA's executive staff. After all, the Red Skull – and your uncle, for that matter – will not live forever. HYDRA needs new, young blood to be the heir apparent to our cause. Herr Skull intends for you to be the next in line after your uncle in leading the organization."

Even before he had begun speaking, her jaw had practically dropped to the ground, her tongue limp and voiceless. A leader? She was being forced to do this – against her will, the threats of death and torture poised before her – and they expected her to agree to take on leadership? Of all this impossible madness?

She narrowed her eyes to slits. "The Red Skull wants me to lead HYDRA? A man – no, creature – that doesn't even know me?"

The officer chuckled, smiling mysteriously. "He knows you better than you think, my dear. Your uncle has provided him with detailed accounts of your progress since the day you arrived on his doorstep. Being childless, obviously, The Red Skull knew he would need an heir to take on the organization after his death. To have his own niece be selected for the position – there is not a higher honor for your uncle."

Again, he smiled. "I am certain you will be pleased to now know that there was a reason you were cycled through – "

"Sixteen piano teachers, twelve mathematics tutors, nine Norwegian teachers, seven Greek, six Latin, five sword-play instructors, and _myself_, for marksmanship; yes, thank you for providing her with every snippet of knowledge that at this time,_ Lieutenant_, I was not in any hurry to reveal to her." A voice cut in coldly, out of the shadows almost.

Looking up, she came to the realization that they had arrived at her Uncle's laboratory once again, Johann's figure merely a silhouette in the shadows of the huge windows.

She watched as the officer's face paled, his eyes widening in his skull.

"I – I –" his voice was quiet it sounded as if it were emerging from the deepest hollows of his skull, half its real size. "I am sorry, Herr Schmidt. I – I did not know that – that you were waiting to speak of this matter with her."

His hands trembled at his sides, his lips quivering like a boy about to cry. Johann turned and strode toward them, slowly, gracefully emerging from the depths of the rear of the laboratory.

He came to stand before them, mere inches from the officer. His eyes were an icy blue, his lips pursed in a thin, angry line.

"Be grateful that you have carried out your duties in a manner that pleases me, Lieutenant." He glanced down at Mina, her wrists still cuffed. "Remove the cuffs and return to your former station. I'll have no more need of you for today."

"Ye – yes sir, of course sir." The officer barked at the guards to release her, and within moments her wrists were freed and the soldiers had dutifully disappeared.

She was left standing nearly toe to toe with her uncle. She didn't know whether to weep or scream.

Fortunately, Johann relieved her from the task of making that decision. He looked her up down, from her sunken cheeks and her swollen lip to her limp arms and bruised legs.

He sighed, heavily. "Come." He said flatly. "Let Dr. Zola have a look at you."

XXX

She sat rigidly on the edge of the bed in the main room of her uncle's private quarters, shuddering violently as Dr. Zola bandaged her midsection tightly.

"Report, Dr. Zola." Johann curtly snapped as he strode into the room, a glass of schnapps in hand. He looked as if he hadn't slept in days.

"Two fractured ribs, sir. Possibly a hairline fracture in the collarbone, but a bit of patching up should keep it stationary. Although, it is hard to say how much damage has been done. She would have needed immediate medical attention at the time of the breaks."

Johann glared at the scientist, who instinctively folded in on himself. Mina felt somewhat sympathetic for the poor man – he was right after all. He simply couldn't stand up to her uncle's overpowering nature.

Staring at his feet, Zola continued. "Although, given the ah…. Accelerated nature of her healing abilities, she should be in mint condition within a few weeks."

Johann nodded slightly, his eyes focused down into the glass of Schnapps he was pouring himself. "If you are quite finished, Doctor, you may continue with your work in the laboratories."

Zola obliged immediately. "As you wish, sir," and he slipped quietly out.

The silence that followed the little scientist's departure was far too long for Mina's comfort, weighing down heavily on her shoulders. She wanted to speak, but the torrent of emotions throbbing within her was impossible to put into words.

She looked up at Johann, who returned her empty gaze with a look that almost made her heart ache with remorse. A sort of strangled agony had seeped into the azure irises of his eyes, void of their usual cold confidence. He looked as if he could weep.

"Uncle," she murmured, but he lifted a hand slightly, dismissing her. She closed her mouth obediently and waited for him to speak.

"I – I apologize for my – my behavior, last evening." His voice seemed to catch as he spoke, causing him to stammer. It was so terribly odd – Johann always had an answer for everything, he was never unsure of himself. Yet, he now seemed like a small child confessing his wrongs to the headmaster.

"It was absolutely uncalled for. And, you have every right to not grant me your forgiveness." He paused, striding towards the bed and sitting down beside her. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, before gingerly putting his arms around her. "I am sorry, Mina." He said so quietly that even next to him, she had to strain to hear. "I never meant to hurt you. I just wanted you to understand things for what they were."

He waited a few moments before looking at her expectantly, his eyes almost pleading for a response. But what could she say? No fury, no sadness, nothing welled up within her. Her heart was empty, her mouth voiceless.

"Why do you work for someone who can kill you?" she said softly. At this, he seemed genuinely surprised – and rendered momentarily speechless. It was quite a while before he answered, and when he did, his voice was still so very faint.

"Hitler could easily dispose of me, couldn't he?" he mused, half to himself. "If I so much as blinked at the wrong time, I would be hung."

"And you think that that was right?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you speaking treasonously of our government, my dear?"

"What is HYDRA doing then, if not treason?"

His mouth seemed to quirk upwards in a slight smirk. "Guilty, I suppose."

He got up and strode towards the windows, hands neatly tucked behind his back. "I suppose I am confident in my superior's ability to think before he executes. He is not an impulsive individual, and therefore does not make brash decisions without first thoroughly examining their potential repercussions."

He paused to glance at her, as if to ensure that he was holding her attention. "Therefore, I relied heavily upon _your _ability to make the correct decision when offered a choice. Obviously, you chose wisely as both of us are still here."

"So you knew that I had no choice." She answered quietly. "Either way, it was hopeless. I would end up enslaved no matter what path I chose."

"Ah," his voice was soft and melodic, yet faintly amused. "And here I thought that you chose to spare my life because of your affection for me."

She looked up at him, her eyes cold. "Do you think this is funny?" she said softly, forcing her voice to be void of tone. "Is this all a big joke to you?"

She stood up. "You knew full well that I had no choice but to comply – you knew that I wouldn't support you on my own so you forced my hand. Is that not correct?"

"Wilhelmina,"

"Is it not?"

She watched as his body went rigid, but he closed his eyes slowly, allowing his muscles to relax. He reached out, cupping her face in his gloved hand.

"Wilhelmina," his voice was soft and delicate, as if it pained him to speak. "Do not make me the villain. I have no desire to manipulate your feelings – nothing disturbs me greater than to see you unhappy. What I have done and I will undoubtedly do in the future is not because I take joy in your misery. I am choosing what is right for you, as you, at this point in time, do not possess the knowledge to understand what is best and what is right. I have such a terribly narrow window of time, Mina. I was granted only so much freedom with allowing you to stay here and take part in my work. Herr Skull needed immediate reassurance that you would not hinder our advancement – he needed immediate confirmation that you would be supportive in our cause. When you demonstrated that that support would not be easily garnered, he suggested that we persuade you. I am not proud of my behavior towards you last night or in these last several hours. But, it was necessary."

He lifted her chin, looking into her eyes. "My main concern is your wellbeing, Wilhelmina. I understand that this has all happened very rapidly – and that HYDRA's intentions may seem mindboggling to you. But I ask that you trust me, at least until I can show you what we intend to do."

"I know what you intend to do." She answered coldly. "You want to take over the world."

"We want to _change_ the world, Mina. We want to steer it in a new direction, we want to revolutionize it and better it. If dictatorship is the only way to achieve that, then so be it. What do you think the Reich is?"

"I know what the Reich is and I'll ask again: do you honestly think that what Hitler is doing is right? If that's your only excuse, then no, I'm not going to trust you. Why should I trust you if all you can seem to do is lie to me about everything? I used to trust you, Uncle. I used to believe in everything you told me. I used to think that you were better than the Nazis. Now I see who you really are. You're working for a mad man and _you _are mad to think that it's right!"

At this, he appeared to be rather taken aback. His azure eyes seemed to pale in color, and he dropped his hands to his sides, letting them hang limp.

"You are being a child." He said simply, quietly – but her blood boiled anyway.

"How am I being a child?" she snapped. "How else would you have me react? What, did you expect that I would just silently accept what you're doing because you think that you've brainwashed me into believing that everything you say is the truth? I'm reacting to this as anyone else would – its madness. You force me to undergo experiments day in and day out, you lie to me thoughtlessly, you manipulate my every decision – all to please your lunatic master!"

She paused for a moment, expecting him to lash out, but he did nothing. His gaze had turned to the alpine view, and he stared at it intently, as if willing her to disappear.

"Uncle,"

He glanced at her before returning to his cold stare.

"This man would have killed you without a thought, Uncle. If you were dispensable to Hitler, surely you are dispensable to this man. You've never let anyone else tell you what to do – you've never let them rule over you. Why is this man any different? Why do you let him push you around?"

Minutes passed as they stood in silence; Mina looking expectantly up at him, Johann with his gaze drawn to the window, his gloved hands clasped rigidly behind his back.

"Because I am one person," he answered finally. "And he has an army. I do not. I am just a scientist."

The almost mournful sorrow was evident in his voice.

"Does that mean that you cannot make a difference?"

"I have and will continue to make broad differences, Wilhelmina." He answered flatly. "HYDRA's very creation has stemmed from the lifelong lust that Herr Skull and I share. I have seen more tragedy and wreckage in this world, in my own life, than I would ever wish for you to endure, Wilhelmina. That is why I ask for your trust. I realize that I sound tireless but, I need you to do this for me, my dear. Not because I fear for my life, not because I desire to make me you miserable."

Once again he turned to her, pulling her into his arms and forcing her to look at him.

"This is an immensely complex subject, Mina – but you must be patient. Soon, everything will fall into place and you will see that it is just. Your concern is that people will die – but what if we can prevent that? I have faith that we will harness your abilities and use them to our advantage. You do not realize just how powerful you will be, Wilhelmina. The last individual to have ever physically brandished the tesseract was Thor – "

"Thor doesn't exist, Uncle."

He immediately quieted, but instead of resuming with an impatient lecture, he merely smirked.

"That is where you would be wrong, darling." He turned towards the windows. "If Thor did not exist, how then, would the tesseract be in our grasp?"

He chuckled softly. "I can assure you, no empty-headed human created _that_."

He strode back towards the leather sofas, Mina wearily following him.

"Now, Wilhelmina – think of it this way. When we have harnessed your abilities, you will potentially possess the power of the gods. With that kind of strength at your fingertips – people will not rebel against you; they will revere you. Ancient mythology serves as proof – whether or not any of these deities exist,"

He gestured lightly at the painting of Thor that hung on the metal hearth. "The mortals will revert back to their historic roots and bow down to you as they did thousands of years ago, like the Greeks and Romans and Norse – even the Egyptians. If we can successfully persuade them _not _to wage a war of any sort – there would be no need for any fatalities."

"But times have changed, Uncle," she persisted. "Just like you said – thousands of years have gone by since the days of mythology. There will always be that group that will rebel. Look at what's happening with the Reich, for God's sake! Hitler's managed to brainwash Germany, but the rest of the world isn't taking his tactics so lightly. Perhaps in your mind, what you intend to do is completely acceptable – but in everyone else's? Anyone in their right mind would see this as beyond madness! You're applying ancient gibberish to reality! I don't care who invented the Tesseract – you're trying to make a thousand-year-old fairytale come true! It can't work!"

Johann's spine went rigid as she spoke, and subconsciously, her tone wavered. The silence that followed riveted into her like a drill.

She shrank back as he turned slowly to face her, his gaze slowly moving to meet hers. He nodded slightly.

"So," He answered quietly.

"So what?"

"So this is where you stand." Again, he strode past her, pacing before the windows. "You see my vision as lunacy." He folded his hands behind his back. "You believe that there is no way to better this world, and that we should all just give up and suffice with the plethora of problems civilization continues to suffer. There is no hope, so why bother trying?"

"I did not say that." She answered firmly. "There's nothing wrong with changing the way the world is, Uncle – it's quite due for a change. But the way you plan to do it is almost redundant. You want to fight a war by starting a new one. There's never going to be a peaceful revolution…"

"Exactly." He replied curtly. "Therefore, you are incorrect. As I have told you before, Wilhelmina – people die in wars. People rebel, those rebellions must be dealt with. It has and always will be that way, no matter how advanced – or rather, no matter how_ lacking_ in advancement – we become. It is not my interest to gallivant about killing people for no reason. I wish to make the world one of superior beings – I cannot do that without them physically existing, now can I?"

"Well…" she sighed. "How do you plan to do that? Make them superior, I mean. Are you going to scientifically change them?"

"Not change them – at least physically. Sadly, HYDRA has not come that far in its scientific advancement. We will not alter them in anyway, but rather, we will teach them. Yes, 'teaching' may imply control, but every civilization requires control. For example, take the Reich. Germany was a crumbling shell before Hitler came along and raised us from our stupor. Myself and Herr Skull intend for HYDRA to act in the same manner, although we intend to be markedly more successful. Hitler is wasting his time ridding society of a race that does not need to be extinguished. We do not intend to kill off whole races – we intend to perfect that which has been marred by the imperfections of man's psychology – and, that includes every human being on this earth, not simply a single religious sect."

Mina pondered his words for a moment, thoughtful. A part of her found his words to be logical, but the other, more dominant part, was still leery.

"So you plan to… govern the people?"

"Yes."

"The whole world?"

"It can be done. Little by little, of course. It is a progressive process, just as Hitler has approached it. Although it is almost guaranteed that we will surpass him. Nothing can be gained from mass propaganda and incessant killing. We will engineer new social codes of conduct, new methods of teaching. We will nurture the scientific and philosophic nature that resides somewhere in every being. We will advance this world through technology and modern science. Medicine, transportation, architecture, literature – the relics of our great ancestors will be preserved and added upon. We will erase the old ways of man, the greed that has ravaged this world. We will begin again, and build an empire like no other – one worthy of the gods."

He stole a glance at her, catching her eyes. He smiled at her and this time it contained a genuine gentleness, not the cold and controlling cruelty it had held the night before. "Is that truly something so terrible to ask for, my sweet?"

She lowered her head quickly, not wanting to give into his compelling gaze. It sounded so harmless… but it couldn't be, could it? Surely there would be blood spilt, there was no other way. Hitler spoke in the same idyllic way that Johann now did, and his Aryan utopia had turned out to be one with so much chilling torture and agony….

Johann had showed her the concentration camps where Jews' screams could be heard for miles, the smoke of the chimneys, the ugly barbed-wire. Peaceful horse rides through the Bavarian countryside peeling away to reveal the hollow shell of Dachau, looming on the horizon. Johann had had no desire to allow her to be sucked into Hitler's false illusions of peaceful separation. He had nurtured her hunger for knowledge by revealing to her the ugly truths that lay buried beneath layers of sugar-coated propaganda. Although in Hitler's employment, she knew full well that he looked upon the man with contempt and made no effort to conceal it.

But Johann's words were easy to believe – everything was so thought out, so precise. He had constructed a beautiful alternate universe in his mind, and beckoned her to be a part of it.

But, he had also confirmed her fears that she would be used as a killing machine – a symbol of fear and destruction to deter any struggles against HYDRA. Images of that night in the laboratory – the fire shooting from her outstretched palms, flinging soldiers through the air like plastic dolls. If Johann and Zola managed to somehow grapple her uncontained abilities – she shuddered at the thought of what they would have her do to thousands of innocent...

"How can you be so sure that the tesseract will work?" she murmured softly. "On me? I haven't been able to produce anything but sparks. What makes you so sure that I will progress any more than I have?"

At this, he offered her a chilling grin that made her spine prickle.

"My resources tell me that you have been toying with your newfound gifts, my dear. The officer who visited you last night reported a small fireworks show. He was not lying, was he?"

His gaze riveted into her, but she would not meet his eyes. She did not know how to respond, for the weight of the voice in her head's words still rang faintly in her ears.

_Rise up; Defeat these foolish mortals who dare abuse the power of Odin._

A sinking feeling welled in the pit of her gut. Foolish mortals like the madmen of HYDRA, those who thought they could waltz into the world and claim it for their own, using the powers of Odin, the tesseract, to plunder in the riches of the earth. No matter how lovely and ideal Johann's vision sounded, she knew deep down that it could not be achieved. No single man, no matter how hideously deformed, no matter how brilliant he claimed himself to be – the Red Skull, or whatever his real name was – he wanted to take over the world. That was the one particular her uncle had carefully danced around, brushing over, dismissing. _Change the world, make it a world of superior beings, teach them, govern them_.

The unstated words were obvious in his blissful tales of peace and intellect and advancement. It didn't matter what HYDRA wanted to do with it – they wanted the world for themselves. And that in itself was blatant madness. That in itself spelt destruction and corruption and bloodshed.

Surely, that was not how Odin had intended for his jewel to be used. And certainly, he had not intended for it to be wielded by selfish mortal men.

Her eyes flickered upward to find Johann mere inches away from her, his deep blue irises riveting into her own. She jumped back slightly at his sudden proximity to her, but he reached out with a gloved hand, cupping her face in his, forcing her forward.

"What did it say to you, Wilhelmina?"

Her mouth went dry. "W – what?"

"The tesseract, Mina, it spoke to you. Your lips were moving – I could see it in your eyes, the blankness that they had when you were consumed by its essence. It has influenced you – what did it tell you?"

"I – I – I don't…" she stumbled for words. He couldn't know what it said – he would be furious, he'd lash out again and do even worse damage. Her fractured ribs ached inwardly, as if begging her to keep silent. To know that the artifact he had searched for his entire career had no desire to be used for his purposes – it would drive him over the edge, she knew it would. "I don't know."

He stared at her for a long time, his eyes cold and endless, an icy abyss more chilling than the Alps that loomed outside the windows.

"You are lying, Wilhelmina." He gripped her face tighter. "Tell me what it said to you."

The fear must have been written across her face, as after a moment, he loosened his grip. He stared at her for another long moment before pulling her into his arms. Stroking her tangled curls, he pressed a kiss on her forehead.

"I will not hurt you again, my princess." He murmured softly. "Never again. You are safe here, I promise. But you must tell me, anything that you can remember that it told you, the tesseract. This information could be pivotal in our progress, and I do not want to put you in any more danger by having nothing to report to Herr Skull. Although he is not an impulsive man, he grows impatient, and his wrath will be directed upon that which hinders our advancement. And I will not be able to protect you."

She looked at him, measuring the sincerity in his eyes. With a deep inhalation, she blurted out the reverie the tesseract's essence had delivered her the night before – at least part of it.

"It told me that – that I was the – the chosen one. That I should prove my – my worth to the gods of Asgard."

Johann gazed at her levelly. "That is all that it told you?"

She swallowed. "Yes." She answered firmly. "That was all."

She expected him to be angry, to see through her lie. He always did – Johann could see through her like glass. He always knew when she was hiding something.

But he only broke into a small smile, quietly confident as he released her from his arms and stood up.

"Thank you, my darling." He stroked her cheek, looking down at her. "Now you understand why I am so confident in your abilities."

"How so?" she answered softly. Again, he smiled that chilling grin.

"The tesseract itself has professed your talents. You are the chosen one, selected by the gods. Of course, now, we must set you to work. You must prove yourself worthy. And how else should you do that, than to give the gods a grand performance?"

He winked at her, smiling still, and crossed the room, slipping into the laboratory and leaving her alone. No doubt, he was setting in motion already the preparations for her to meet again with the glowing object she had come to hate in these past weeks.

The secret was out – the tesseract spoke to her, fed the flames that tingled in her fingertips. She was connected to the gods of Asgard, to the everlasting might of ancient myth. And with that unbreakable power was surely to come unending destruction and eternal bloodshed.

The reign of HYDRA was beginning. The new world that this Red Skull and her uncle had long dreamt of creating would soon become a reality. The end of the world as she knew it would soon be upon them. Chaos.

Unleashed from her unwilling fingertips.

Overcome by the sudden finality of it all, she sank to her knees, the weight of harsh reality crushing her shoulders.

But she had lied to Johann. The tesseract would not go willingly into battle for the cause of an organization made up of power-hungry mortal men, no matter how superior they thought themselves. It had proved that much with its final words to her.

_Rise up. Rise up. Rise up and prove your worth. Defeat these foolish mortals who dare abuse the power of Odin. Rise up. Rise up. Rise up. Rise up. Rise up._

_Rise up._

"But how?" the words died in a whisper on her tongue.

How, when she had just willingly surrendered herself to the iron grip of a mad man? To the iron grip of a man she'd never even seen? Whose influence was so powerful that it had allowed her uncle to surrender himself to a possible death, all because of his devotion to this man?

She looked up slowly, her gaze meeting the icy blue one of the ugly portrait that loomed before her.

_Rise up. Rise up. Rise up. Rise up._

His blood-red skin gleamed in the waning light of the afternoon sun.

_Rise up. Rise up. Rise up. Rise up._

"Rise up." She whispered. "But how?"


	14. For All that it is Worth

**Very quietly today, Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you Kapitel Vierzehn. Also known as, Chapter 14. Oh do I love me some irony. That moment when Mina assumes that she can see her uncle for who he really is, in his precious HYDRA, no mask to hide behind…**

**Lolz, yeah right!**

**Thank you to every single person that has read this fanfiction, and moreover, thank you to every single person who has given me and continues to give me the most touching, thought-provoking, and motivating feedback. Your reviews offer me the perfect amounts of criticism, helpful suggestions, and encouragement to keep this going. Special thanks to MusicWolf7, Zabuzasgirl, and Blackbird71. You guys are AMAZING. Thank you for your everlasting support!**

**And so, with my sincerest regards, I leave you to enjoy the fourteenth addition of Athena. May it live up to your expectations.**

**~ Jasper Quentin Blood**

***Side Note: For those of you who were hoping for at least a cameo appearance by Cap – Here tis, and I hope you enjoy it**

HYDRA Base – the Alps

1942

Chopin's _Waltz No. 7 in C Sharp Minor_ echoed faintly across the empty laboratory, its coy and playful tune gnawing at him, mocking him like an incessant mosquito. The drumming of his gloved fingers against the desk thrummed in his ears and he closed his eyes, his head lolling from side to side as he pantomimed running his long fingers across the keys. How he longed for his piano, its sleek and smooth keys dancing wildly beneath his fingertips, the ecstasy of the music enthralling every sense, setting his nerves alight in a joyous euphoria.

His mind was a blank canvas, his brush lying dormant, the palate exploding with untouched colors. Whatever thoughts had previously graced his psych had decided to wither away to ash, leaving him hopelessly uninspired and painfully tormented. Every muscle in his body was tensed for action, a moment of sheer brilliance, an epiphany of any sort. His tongue thrashed against his gritted teeth, desperately biting back its agonized screams, its shrieks of damnation, its doleful pleas for Lord Odin's guidance.

_ Prove your worth to the gods of Asgard. _What did it want, what did it expect of him?

He glared bitterly at the glowing containment device, the tesseract buried deep in its cage of metal. What was he supposed to do? What kind of a show did the tesseract want? Was it expecting some grand theatrical performance, some gallant act of chivalry that would somehow deem this snip of a girl to be worthy of its majesty?

Did it expect her to single-handedly stop the burning of Jews? To banish world hunger, or cure all the illnesses in the universe? Or perhaps, it expected her to save the proverbial bunny from the fox? Or the lamb from the slaughter house?

He clenched and unclenched a hand, the other probing vigorously at his jaw. Damnable. Utterly damnable. It was as if the gods were purposely mocking him, expecting him to be able to achieve the impossible.

How was he to pull such a thing off, exactly? The tesseract had stated, if his niece's reports were indeed truthful, that it wanted an act of self-worth, something to prove that Wilhelmina was indeed everything that it had bargained for in selecting her to be its bearer.

But of course, it would be unspeakable for the desires of an artifact once held by Norse gods to be self-explanatory. A vague, fragmented passage, sung like a hymn on the winds of a storm, tunneling through a funeral entourage. A few wisps of a command, and then gone, like a candle winking from existence. All manner of metaphors could be conjured to describe his predicament, but only the most basic of these was needed.

He was, indubitably, out of ideas.

Unless he could somehow find a way for dear Mina to save every homeless child and feed every hungry orphan and destroy every Jew-killing gas-chamber, it was utterly hopeless.

The only way for her to prove herself worthy of the gods of Asgard was to take the world by storm and create out of it a temple for the superior men, the men of HYDRA particularly.

And naturally, the only way she could achieve that was with the aid of the Tesseract's power.

He swore under his breath, brutally chastising the scientist in him for relying on a flimsy whim that maybe – just maybe – the Tesseract would suddenly become agreeable and _give_ itself up to his control.

"Nothing is without a price." He muttered angrily, downing his seventh glass of Schnapps.

"_Mein Herr_," a faint wisp of a voice itched in his ears like the whining of an insect.

"Please Zola," he emphasized each word slowly, "Not now."

He watched as the shadow of the little scientist fidgeted near the entrance. "I do apologize for interrupting you, Herr Schmidt, but this is truly quite deserving of your attention."

Johann shut his eyes tightly, laying his head down into his outstretched palms.

"For your sake," he cooed softly into his gloves, "It had better be, Arnim."

He heard the little doctor's shuffling footsteps come to a halt. "Closer please, doctor. I prefer to address a face and not the darkness."

"My apologies, sir." Zola awkwardly crept out of the shadows, stepping into the dim lamplight of the laboratory's rear.

Johann raised himself up from his desk and sat back in his chair, his cigarette holder poised before his lips.

"Humor me doctor – whatever is it that is so terribly urgent?"

Zola shuffled about, as per usual. "Well sir, I merely wanted to inquire…"

"You wanted to inquire, ah I see." He raised an eyebrow in mock curiosity. "Please go on, or I might suddenly die of suspense about what it is about your inquiry that is _so rivetingly crucial _to me."

He repressed a satisfied smirk as the little man shrank away.

"Well I – I … are you quite certain that we should be carrying out tests in the new facility, sir?"

Johann raised an eyebrow quizzically. "Why ever not, Arnim? The place is empty, and until your little machine is finished, it cannot be used. I am merely giving it a purpose."

The vacant factory was situated a mere fifty kilometers from the base – a short distance if driven at top speed, which his vehicle was beyond capable of achieving.

"Speaking of your 'little machine', when is it to be finished?"

Zola's latest contraption was to be the main power source for the new facility – the tesseract's essence, in its concentrated form, would be contained within the confines of the machine, and would thus power every _other_ machine – whether it be vehicle, weapon, etcetera – in the factory. A central source of power that would never need to be refueled or repaired or recharged, enabling 24-hour industrialization that would be vital to his cause. A factory that could run on its own forever, continuously producing vital weapons of mass-destruction would prevent him from ever having to reinforce his army. There would never be the nerve-wracking pause at which soldiers were frantically searching for power when there was none to be had.

His forces would be indestructible, a never-ending wave of man-power. Of course, he hoped that with a little more time and effort, there would be virtually no need to put his men's lives on the line. The opportunities for which the tesseract's power could be utilized were endless – and he intended to explore them all.

So engrossed in his thoughts was Johann that he hardly registered the little man speaking in a frantic blur.

"It will be finished within the week, I assure you, _Mein Herr_. But, in my professional opinion, that is the least of your worries at this moment."

Johann gave him a questioning look. "Pray tell why that is, Arnim? For, I truly believe you to be mistaken."

Zola fiddled with his bowtie absently, avoiding his superior's riveting gaze. "Sir, I agree that the facility, under different circumstances, would be the ideal setting for these tests you plan to run but – "

"But what, Zola?"

"Sir, the scouts have just recently returned with information that the level of American spy activity along the premises of the facility has reached its peak. They have not succeeded in discovering anything of significance, but still – don't you think it would be rather unwise to conduct such vital tests with the enemy lurking around the corner? What happens if they find out about your work – about our plans for your niece? They've already taken down one facility in Austria – what if that Captain decides to make an appearance? We've never been able to stop him; we come so close and he slips through our fingers. Really sir, I don't think it wise."

His superior tiredly massaged his temples. "Zola, I have long since ceased from giving a damn about what our foolish little star-spangled man does in his spare time. If he decides to come traipsing through our little shindig, then so be it. My men will be at the ready."

"But sir, he has beaten us every time. He has already succeeded to destroy three of our factories – the damage would be increased a thousand-fold if he were to discover what we were doing with your niece! It would be catastrophic if the Americans were to find out that we were in the process of harvesting the tesseract's power for human imbuement! They would hunt her down and kill her, and we would tragically be out of a pivotal weapon!"

"That's very thoughtful of you, Zola." Johann responded dryly.

Zola bristled, indignant. "This is an extraordinarily serious matter, Herr Schmidt. I would think that you, of all people, would be most concerned with it."

His superior took a long drag from his cigarette holder, blowing a large cloud of grey-blue smoke into the air.

"I have more pressing dilemmas to be concerned with at present, Dr. Zola. In order to appease the tesseract's desires for something to ensure that my niece was the correct choice, I am being forced to engineer some gallant act of bravery for her to present. And, given that I am currently uninspired, I have yet to produce anything. I would rather have the Americans tear down a factory than be forced to give up perhaps our most ingenious weapon design yet."

Zola chuckled bitterly. "Oh, she'll have to be plenty brave, alright. For when that damned Captain sets the whole building ablaze, she'll need every defense she can get."

In the midst of pouring his eighth glass of Schnapps, Johann paused abruptly, nearly sloshing the liquid all over his desk.

"Zola," he murmured softly. The little scientist glanced up at him, suddenly overtaken by fright at his superior's intense stare.

Instinctively, he shrank back. "My – my apologies sir… I – I overstepped my bounds; I – I should have held my tongue," he stammered nervously, but Johann held up a hand.

"I apologize, Zola. Clearly I have not given your intelligence enough credit."

Zola stared at him in dismay. "P – pardon, sir?"

Johann stood up, striding languidly to the huge, panoramic window. "You have just provided me with my 'act of bravery', Dr. Zola. You should be commended."

"I – I did, sir?"

His superior turned back to face him, his azure irises sparkling in the dim light of the laboratory. A wicked grin flared across his features.

"Oh that is truly genius," he cackled lightly, "such a delightful little twist in our on-going drama."

Zola stood in silent bewilderment.

Johann laughed again, almost manically. "Don't you see, Dr. Zola? That imbecile Rogers could be our way out of this conundrum! Damn, why didn't I think of it before?"

"Th – think of what, sir?"

"Zola, it's perfect. Naturally our good Captain would have to make an appearance at our little event – he will not be able to resist. But what if we strike back at him? What if we set the place alight with explosives – pull out all the stops, hurl every bit of ammunition we have at him? Make it clear that this time, we will destroy every _angelic_ fiber of his being – only to have him survive at the gracious hand of our darling little Mina?"

He turned back to face the window. "What better act of bravery than to have her put her own life on the line to save another? The classic fairy-tale heroine brought to life. We won't even have to direct her. We'll set off all the explosives we can muster – it will be chaos, the factory will be blown to pieces. We'll annihilate his reinforcements, his beloved _Howling Commandos_. She'll become separated from us – caught in the aftermath of the explosion, all alone with our dear Captain. He'll struggle desperately, suffocating on the fumes, blinded by the shrapnel, helpless, unguarded. And Wilhelmina, always the good heart, will not be able to help herself. She will save him; she will protect him from our hungry fire. If nothing else than to infuriate our _Red Skull_, whom she holds such much contempt for."

He chuckled to himself. "Does that not sound gallant, Zola? Is that not the purest act of bravery, to betray your own to save another, someone innocent and vulnerable? Even an artifact as dynamic as the Tesseract would have to believe that."

He paused for a moment, relaxing his breathing which had suddenly grown rapid. As his heart slowed, he returned to face his assistant.

"So, Dr. Zola, what do you think?"

Zola stared at him, his mouth agape in a way that very closely resembled a dead fish.

Johann sat down before his desk, leaning back, his hands casually laced and resting in his lap.

Finally, Zola spoke, his voice a thin whisper. "I think you're mad to take such a risk." He answered.

His superior lifted an eyebrow. "Perhaps I am. But I have come too far in my work to give up now, and all because of one imbecile and his petty band of misfits."

"You will have no choice but to give up if you go through with this," Zola countered, reclaiming his voice, an angered spark in his magnified pupils. "We have never been successful in capturing Rogers – what makes you so confident that we will be able to this time? Perhaps it would be a different case if we were not to be preforming vital tests on what could be our most pivotal weapon yet, but we will have so much more to lose this time! It is not worth the risk!"

"Zola," Johann cut in sharply, his eyes narrowed. He stood up from his desk and walk around towards the little man. He was nearly toe to toe with him when he spoke, staring down at him coldly.

"This is our _only _opportunity, Zola. We cannot advance unless we have the entirety of the tesseract's power in our fingertips. As long as there are men like Steven Rogers skulking about this earth, we will never have the chance to carry out what we have always meant to do. _He_ gives them hope, no matter how transient and useless it is, but _that _is what keeps them adamant to defeat us. The sooner that I can put Wilhelmina into action, the smoother our revolution will proceed. You must understand, Zola. This is the only chance we have – we must shake humanity to the core, we must show them that there is no _hope, _no chance of _survival_, unless they bow to us. And they will bow, Zola. But not unless we have every ounce of power behind us."

He inhaled deeply. "I would rather have _Captain America _alive and waltzing around Germany looking for factories to incinerate when I can rest peacefully with the knowledge that my niece will single-handedly destroy him and every simpleton who praises his name within mere months' time. However, if we do not successfully carry out the task of fully imbuing her with the tesseract's power, we might as well hand over our explosives to the dear Captain and let him have at it."

He turned his back to the scientist, staring out into the darkness. "So, the choice is yours Zola, whether or not you condone my strategy. But I will go through with it no matter what you decide. Call it insanity, desperation, call it whatever you like. But as of this moment, it is the only thing that I can formulate that might actually have a chance of success. Of course, you are welcome to offer your suggestions."

Several moments of silence followed, until the sound of Zola sighing deeply resounding behind his back.

"I would hope that some measure of preparation will be going into this gamble?"

Johann smiled icily. "Have all the flood-lights illuminated. I want it lit up like a Christmas tree – dripping with suspicious activity that even our crafty Captain will not be able to resist. We leave in exactly one hour. The sooner we can begin our little performance, the better."

XXX

American Army Base

30 Kilometers South of the Base of the Alps

Barracks of Colonel Chester Phillips

2315 Hours

The pitter-patter of snowflakes against the canvas roof echoed loudly in his ears, his senses alight even with his face buried in his crossed arms. The click-clacking of typewriter keys pounded like hailstones the size of baseballs, and no amount of whiskey seemed to dull the throbbing in his skull.

"Damn it, Corporal, get the hell back to your barracks. I'm not in the mood to be dictating progress reports when we haven't got any goddamned progress _to _report." He snapped bitterly, rubbing his temples in vexation.

The poor corporal – not but maybe twenty years – leapt from his seat and was out of the tent with only so much as a mumbled 'sir'.

Col. Phillips lowered his head once again, absorbing the quiet. He sighed heavily.

HYDRA was up to something, that much was obvious. The empty shell of a factory, a mere 50 kilometers from the base, was constantly swarming with HYDRA personnel, trucks loaded to their fullest capacity with machinery and weapons and armed soldiers. But God only knew whatever was taking place beyond the barbed-wired fences and blacked out windows of the ghost-like skeleton of the facility. He'd sent out five reconnaissance teams in the last month, each made up of at least five men, and not a single soul had come back.

Twenty-five men, gone just like that. He could have relied on the flimsy hope that they were merely imprisoned and being used for labor, but he sincerely doubted it. Schmidt had learned his lesson since his first encounter with Captain Rogers. There would be no more prisoners. Just bodies. Bodies that he was responsible for. Bodies that would be accompanied by personal effects and letters of grave solemnity, signed with his name.

Mothers, wives, children, siblings – people with no names or faces with which to identify them with. But that didn't make things any easier.

Chester Phillips had been in the army for over forty years – too damn long, perhaps, but so far he hadn't done anything so blindingly catastrophic to merit his dismissal.

And so, he was here, well past his planned retirement date, and with a great deal more concerns on his plate than he would have preferred.

The sound of rustling canvas awakened him from his daze. He glanced up tiredly to see the beaming face of Captain Steve Rogers, the proverbial poster-boy for American patriotism. However, he currently was not feeling very patriotic, and the sight of the gallant officer perturbed more than it uplifted him.

"You ordered for my presence, sir?" his voice was light-hearted and joking, the bright smile still painted on his face.

Phillips sighed deeply. "Wipe the grin of your face, Captain."

Rogers frowned. "Is everything alright, sir?" his tone was serious. "We've just had a major victory at the Hamburg factory. I would've thought you'd be a little more upbeat than this."

"Well I'm not, Rogers!" he snapped bitterly. "We've got more important things to be concerned with than to be celebrating over one damned factory! HYDRA is exactly as its name says it is – for every facility we burn, another six pop up out of nowhere."

"I'm guessing that means that another one has 'popped up out of nowhere'?"

Phillips massaged his temples vigorously. "50 kilometers from here." He pushed a map closer to the edge of his desk, inviting Rogers to look at it. "Everything's blacked out by night, but the place is swarming with HYDRA personnel. Whatever they're doing, they're being very quiet about it. They've got something damn powerful – I can feel it. Of course, my superiors think that I'm hallucinating, but I'm sure of it. Schmidt's got a ticking time-bomb, waiting for us to detonate it. For the past month, we've been able to walk into our every facility and take it practically without a single shot fired. He's got to have something much more important occupying his interests if _that_ isn't bothering him."

Rogers traced a finger along the route to the new facility. "You want me and the Howlers' to take a look at it, sir?"

Phillips sighed again. "I would like nothing more than to send you and your men in, Rogers, but every recon mission I've sent in hasn't sent a word back in months. For all I know, they're good as dead. Whatever they're doing in that factory, Schmidt doesn't want any possible survivors. I don't particularly want to risk losing my best weapon, that being you."

Rogers was silent for a moment, his face contemplative. "Sir, something needs to be done. We can't just let them keep on destroying everything in their path – no matter how many men it takes. These men are glad to lay down their lives if it means stopping Schmidt. The world isn't worth living in with him in control of it. You know that as well as I do. Let me and the Howlers' do our jobs – we've stopped Schmidt before, we can do it again. Please, sir." Rogers' tone was sincere, but Phillips still felt a catch in his throat.

If he carried out a grand raid on the place and lost every man he sent in, aside from his career being done for, their fight against HYDRA would be finished. With this freakish new power source in his clutches, Schmidt would take a certain sadistic pleasure in killing each and every one of them in the most horrific way possible.

But, the Captain was indeed correct. Something needed to be done, and soon. But there was no logical way to do that without losing precious men and resources.

"Please sir," the Captain's voice echoed in the back of his mind, hopeful and confident.

Phillips sighed heavily, taking a swig from his flask of whiskey. "No, Rogers." He said finally. "It's a lost cause –"

"Sir," another, foreign voice echoed throughout the tent. The young corporal's head popped through the flap of the tent. "Sir, we've got an update on the HYDRA facility."

Phillips stood up immediately, Rogers at his heels. "What news, Corporal?"

"Sir, the place is lit up like a football stadium! Crawling with personnel! They've got the big guns there too! Zola and maybe even Schmidt! Something's brewing down there, Colonel! It's big!"

Phillips swore under his breath.

"This is too easy," Rogers answered. "Schmidt would never make such an obvious move. It's got to be a trap."

"I'm sure as hell it is, Rogers, but what are we supposed to do about it then? Just sit here? Schmidt's too smart to think he's got us fooled. He knows we won't take the bait right away." Phillips replied. "He'll sit an' wait like a hungry gator. Long as it takes for us to get impatient and start snooping around. We've got two choices – sit it out and hope it's all a ruse… or get our asses handed to us when we find out he's actually doing something noteworthy."

The Corporal waited expectantly for his superiors to make their decision, his eyes darting about like swivel cannons.

"Sir,"

Phillips bit his lip. "What do you say, Rogers?"

Rogers narrowed his eyes. "Maybe if we take the bait immediately, we can fool him. Throw up a barrage of men and ammunition at him, then fall back like we're retreating. We'll send our men in waves, coming and going, catching the soldiers off guard. Maybe if we counter his move with making ours as obvious as possible, he might take _our_ bait."

"That's doubtful, Captain."

"Yes sir, but it's all we've got, isn't it?"

Phillips sighed heavily, glancing from the Captain to the Corporal.

"Oh hell," he snapped. "Let's move out men."

XXX

HYDRA Facility

2400 Hours

It did not take Wilhelmina very long to wake up from her fitful slumber, sprawled across the backseat of her uncle's car, his jacket haphazardly thrown across her body, Zola's briefcase serving as a pillow.

Slowly she sat up, exercising each stiff muscle one by one.

"Are you finally conscious, my dear?" Johann called, not caring to glance back, but she could hear the smirk in his voice. "Time to face the day, my flower."

"It's not day yet," she muttered darkly.

"Actually it is – " Zola started, but he was quickly silenced by her biting glare.

Johann offered his assistant a very amused, yet slightly apologetic smile. "Forgive her, Zola. She was never much of a morning person. Clearly my influence is lacking in some areas."

Tiredly, she stifled a yawn. "Why do we have to do this now, of all times? I thought you wanted to keep things discreet."

"All in due time, my sweet." He answered coyly. "We must not ruin all the fun for you."

Mina lay back in her seat, a sickening feeling tying her stomach in knots. She hated how he spoke about his plans – any of his plans. He sounded so cunning, so wicked, so… so _excited, elated. _

It sickened her to the core, but at the same time, it stimulated her intense curiosity. By playing into his plans, she was able to see a side of him she had never before been able to see.

There was so much complexity to him, yet in her presence, he was always a one-sided, static character. The strict, every perfecting, fiercely protective uncle. Always smartly sarcastic when she fumbled blatantly, but deeply caring when her emotions were wounded. He doted on her like all father-figures seemed to dote, bringing her clothing and trinkets or taking her riding or to the opera.

But back then, when she had been blissfully ignorant, he avoided contact desperately. He never spoke of his work _ever_, never revealed the hungry lust that gleamed in his eyes, never ventilated his murderous fantasies, his taste for power, for control.

Here, deep in the cavernous jaws of HYDRA, he was unguarded – no façade, no mask with which to hide behind. Completely vulnerable to her examination.

Of course, her examination was terribly limited. She knew there was still so much about him to be discovered – perhaps information that she would never _want_ to discover.

But, there was one thing in particular that she desperately longed to find out. The tesseract's words rang in her ears like vibrant bells, tolling incessantly.

It had issued her with a task, and no matter the risk, she fervently desired to complete it.

Once HYDRA manipulated her newfound abilities, she would forever be a slave to an unknown source – this enigmatic _Red Skull_, who seemed uninterested in making an appearance at any of her 'showings'.

She found it rather curious – if she was so terribly important, why had he not confirmed that himself? If that soldier that had come to her cell had indeed been correct – if her uncle was merely 'a scientist of easy disposal', why would he hide behind him, pulling his strings like a puppeteer? If he was truly the mastermind behind HYDRA, would he not be very insistent to prove it? She was all too accustomed to her uncle's maddeningly egotistical mannerisms – would his superior not be the same, since Johann seemed to worship him like a god?

She felt the light drumming of gloved fingers on her shoulder.

"Dozing, hmm?" he purred into her ear, his fingers moving to lift her chin. His expression turned to one of mock disapproval. "Wake up now, you must pay attention."

Mina sighed heavily and nodded, exiting the vehicle in a fatigued stupor.

A few moments' walking and they were soon in the belly of the iron, beast-like structure, which was ironically, completely barren.

She blinked as the harsh light of fluorescent lamps flooded the vast expanse of space. Honeycomb tiling, much like her uncle's laboratory, bedecked the ceilings and walls, the floors of poured cement.

A few hollow structures, assumedly machines, were covered in white canvas, hidden from view. An empty control room near the top level, winding metal staircases creating an intricate web across the walls.

"I thought this place was supposed to be a factory," she mumbled, half to herself.

"It is," Johann answered her. "Simply not at this moment. We have yet to finish our central machinery that will be powering the facility's main assembly-lines. For that reason, we are using it for your testing, since it is currently not in commission."

"Oh," her voice was hollow. "What will the central machine be?"

Johann smiled, his teeth white against the almost gray color of his taut skin. "It will be a source of containment for the tesseract's essence, a never-ending supply of its power. This way, we won't have to deal with trouble of transporting the artifact from place to place or having to refuel our smaller containment devices, which are far more temporary."

He grasped her shoulder lightly, steering her to the center of the expanse. "Zola and I will be up in the observations deck when we begin. The outer perimeters of the factory will be enforced with guards – please do not toy with them. You will be left completely to your own devices this time. The tesseract's essence is within you, we merely need to draw it out of you, to its fullest extent. Take whatever course of action you think is best. You will not be restrained; you will be free of any control other than your own. I expect you to wield that control responsibly."

She nodded obediently.

"Are you nervous?" he inquired suddenly, his eyes looking down into hers.

Mina bit her lip. "Not nervous, I – I just don't think this will make any difference."

"What do you mean, my dear?"

She sighed heavily. "Every single test you've tried on me, I've failed. Nothing has worked. The tesseract said so itself, I need to prove my worth. How is running the same test going to change matters?"

At this, he grinned almost wickedly. "You've nothing to worry about, my dearest." He patted her cheek lightly. "Dr. Zola and I have taken care of all that."

She nodded shakily. "Ah. Then I suppose I should feel better."

Johann didn't seem to hear her, instead engrossing himself in the act of barking orders to idle guards.

She rubbed her temples, a deep and pulsating migraine blooming at the base of her skull.

Perhaps it was her lack of sleep, but her furiously beating heart seemed to think otherwise. Johann was hiding something – his smirking lips were devious, like a naughty schoolboy about to put a snake in the teacher's desk. He had something planned – this would be no normal test trial.

She closed her eyes, the faint humming of the tesseract's voice mumbling in the back of her head.

"Give me the strength," she whispered. "Get me out of here."

She looked up, scanning the throngs of soldiers and scientists, the buzz of harsh voices and the sting of cold lights. "Please," she whispered, her voice strained. "Please just let me do it. Give me the strength, the power, please." As if her fervent begging would somehow speak to the Gods of Asgard, as if her prayers would induce their pity. "Please, no more tests. Let this be it. Don't make it go on."

_Rise up. Defeat these foolish mortals who dare abuse the power of Odin. Rise up, rise up, rise up, rise up, rise up …_

The voice rang loudly now in her head, pounding and pulsating. Everything spun, her vision blurring, her stomach leaping into her throat, the dizziness and nausea overpowering her.

Her knees buckled beneath her and she felt her body crumble, her limbs like rubber.

Voices, real ones, echoed faintly.

Zola's rang across the room, his tone shaky. "_Quickly, she's down!_"

Johann's, firm and certain. "_It is the tesseract. It has possessed her again."_

"_Stabilize her,_" the scientist snapped, "_She could be prone to seizures._"

Soldiers were around her, their eyes wide, hovering above her, their glove hands wrapping around her arms.

"Remove her," Johann was there, his face a mess of colliding emotions, warring with each other for dominance. Rage, annoyance, concern, protectiveness.

"_No,_" she gasped, her voice deep and rasping. "No, I can do it. Please, let me try. I think I can do it this time."

Zola furrowed his brows, his eyes owlish behind the large specs. "Miss, you know that the tests are very strenuous – you could burn out if you apply to much stress. You need rest." He paused to shoot an angered glare at Johann, who returned the stare viciously.

"I can do it." She answered firmly. "This may be the only chance I get. I can feel it. Please just let me try once."

Johann's eyes gleamed with triumph and the little scientist sighed. "As you wish." He snapped bitterly, more to his superior than to her, it seemed. "Take the risk. That does seem to be the ongoing trend, after all."

The soldiers lifted her up by the arms, none too gently, setting her back on her feet. Her breaths were heavy, her heartbeat feverish.

Johann rested his gloved hands on her shoulders gently. "Wilhelmina, are you certain are alright, darling?"

She nodded shakily. "Yes, yes I'm fine. I just… I feel it… the tesseract wants to speak to me again, I can feel it. We have to begin immediately. It's such a weak connection – I fear I may not be able to grasp onto it if we put it off any longer." She looked up into his eyes. "I can't go through any more tests, Uncle. It's driving me mad, having to hear it, like it always inside my head."

Johann sighed sharply, the exhale quick, but deep. His eyes were an ice blue, tinged with silver, like mirrors looking into her. He looked away for a moment, and she could perceive the slightest hint of guilt written on his features. He sighed again and put his arms around her.

"I have confidence that this time, we shall be successful, Wilhelmina. After today, you will not ever have to endure this incessant strain. I promise."

She swallowed hard, her eyes lowered. "But what if it is not successful? Then what?"

At this, he grew silent.

She looked up at him once again, staring defiantly into his eyes. "Do not make promises to me that you know you cannot keep, Uncle." she glanced up at the observation decks, where Zola stood, an impatient frown twisting his face. "Shouldn't you be up there now?"

Johann's lips parted slightly, as if longing to speak, but unable to find the words. After a few moments, he nodded curtly and turned, striding stiffly across the expanse.

Several minutes passed until Zola's voice, amplified by a microphone, broke through the frozen silence. His tone was rather petulant.

"Proceed at your own will, _Fraulein_ Hofstadter. As you've undoubtedly noticed, you are not restrained. You are free to move about as you like. Although, please notice that the outermost perimeters of the factory are securely guarded. Therefore, please do not feel tempted to make any brash decisions whilst under the tesseract's influence."

Mina sighed. "Because I really have a choice what I do whilst under its influence." She mumbled bitterly.

She looked up at the observation deck, meeting Johann's eyes. He nodded grimly, but after a few moments, he offered her a supportive smile.

Or at least, she chose to believe that it was supportive. Although it was probably meant to be much more malicious.

Clearing her throat, she lifted her head to face the ceiling, closing her eyes and breathing in deeply. She stretched her arms out before her, open palms aimed skyward.

A faint tingling began in her fingertips and silently, she called out.

_Gods of Asgard, _for what else was she to call them? _My lord Odin, please answer my call. _Her lips moved with a steady beat, as if soundlessly chanting. Although it hadn't been necessary before to speak in her thoughts, now, she felt a sort of obligation to ask of the Gods for a chance, a chance to prove herself. A chance to vow to them that she would keep the promise issued to her.

_Rise up. Defeat these foolish mortals who dare abuse the power of Odin._

She mouthed the words. _Lord Odin, please, answer my call. _Even through closed eyes she could picture the hungry grin gracing her Uncle's face, the unquenchable thirst for blood that had been ingrained on his tongue. The gnarled face of his beloved superior. Her breath caught in her throat as the mingling voices grew louder in her head, chanting, singing, screaming, weeping.

_Lord Odin. You have chosen me to bear this sacred artifact, yet I do not understand why. What have I to offer you? The foolish mortals that you speak of, you speak of the men of HYDRA. This Red Skull. They speak of madness and death and destruction, they have brainwashed my uncle into believing that it is just. But how am I to stop this, I am just one girl. And a rather poor excuse of one. You ask me to prove my worth, but how? How? How can I rise up when I am powerless?_

She waited, her breath sucked in, her heart beating slowly and methodically. Her eyes were wet beneath her closed lids and she wanted to scream. _Please. Please, please, please. Answer me, Lord Odin. Tell me, show me, please._

She could feel the heat on her hands, spreading up her arms, the fire catching, spreading. The voices swirled in her head, their sing-song voices grew jumbled and unrecognizable, but louder and louder, pulsating and throbbing, their noise deafening.

The fire burned almost painfully, but she willed it to keep on, fervently begging for just a single voice to shine through the cacophony.

A rich and ethereal voice sheered through the explosion of sound, all voices except this one, withering and dying into a silent abyss.

The voice was deafeningly loud, clearly male, but layered, a dark bass and a rich tenor simultaneously.

_Open your eyes, girl._

Her eyes snapped open immediately, as if on their own accord. A wall of blinding blue light, swirling in an impossibly fast vortex imprisoned her, blocking out everyone and everything that surrounded her. She was completely alone and unable to be observed.

A wave of terror hurtled through her, a scream threatening to tear out of her vocal cords. But the voice resumed its speech.

_Child, you do not call upon the gods of Asgard as if we are your slaves._

"My – my apologies, my lord. I – I did not mean to insult you so." She whispered meekly.

The voice emitted a thunderous laughter, causing the floor to quake and shift beneath her feet.

_Still, you are humble. You do not seek to steal my power and use it to your own devices. You ask permission, unlike your captors. You are unfortunate; you are imprisoned in their iron grip._

"Yes," she whispered.

_But you are not like them, are you little child? No, you do not wish to destroy the world that the gods created and gave to their people. You do not wish to spite our generosity, as these selfish mortals do. Tell me child, why then do you call upon me? _

"I – I would like to know – why you have chosen me, my lord. Why am I the chosen one? I am not a hero."

Again, a deep and rumbling chuckle.

_You were chosen because you are the voice of reason, child. It is a rare honor for such to be so. You are one among many self-proclaimed philosophers, but you are the only to see that they are attempting to mock the gods. They are forcing you to conduct this trial now, as we are speaking, because they wish to manipulate me and force my hand. They believe that if they engineer an act of self-worth for you to gallantly carry out, that they will have obligated me to grant you the entire essence of my jewel._

"But you will not," she answered softly.

_But I will. Men are complex, greedy and desperate in nature. These men will do whatever is necessary to take control of my creation and my people – they will not wait for me to give them their ultimate weapon. They will utilize the shred of power they have managed to manifest from my jewel, and they will see to it that their goals are surpassed._

Mina felt a prickling chill at the base of her spine. _Shred of power_. The weapons that HYDRA had created from the tesseract already – they vaporized men in seconds, their bodies vanishing from thin air. If that was to be considered miniscule – how powerful would she be, if the gods granted her uncle's wish?

_Little child, indeed you would far surpass your foolish mortal men's petty weapons. They cannot even begin to comprehend the Armageddon they could begin._

"But – you will – you will allow me to fully imbue myself with the tesseract's powers? With the knowledge that these men will use it to destroy everything in sight?"

_Not it, little child. You. They will use you. That is why you have been chosen._

"I don't understand."

_You are drowning in a sea of ignorant fools. You do not overstep your bounds so grievously as these men do. You take care not to upset us, whilst they disregard our existence entirely. They pretend to worship us, but they truly worship themselves. You are young, yes, but you think that you are powerless when you are not. I will give you the power of my jewel, little child. I know that you will use it wisely. And if you do not, that power can just as easily be extinguished._

A sound like paper ripping in half tore through her mind, and Odin and the blinding walls of light, were gone.

XXX

The blinding white of fluorescent lights pierced through her closed eyelids and the sound of frantic voices sounded like a foghorn in her tender eardrums. Zola's high-pitched chattering, yelling at soldiers to move aside; Johann's firm voice slightly shaky as he barked orders – something having to do with a medic.

Moments later, she felt strong arms hoisting her up, cradling her ever so gently.

"_Wilhelmina, Mina darling, wake up, please." _His voice was soft and melodic in her ear, but it was laced with worry. Her body felt as if huge weights had been thrown on top of her, and it was almost painful for her to pry her eyelids open.

"Uncle," she whispered softly.

Johann smoothed her hair back with a gloved hand. "I'm here, my sweet. It is over now, darling."

Her eyes snapped open and her heart lurched in her chest. "No it isn't. It has only just begun."

Johann appeared quizzical. "What are you talking about, my princess?"

XXX

Steve Rogers lay crouched behind a grassy embankment, the enemy factory before him, ablaze with light, every guard frantically swarming inside. It was obvious that something had happened, but now, he intended for an even bigger event.

He glanced back at his Howlers, tensed and ready for sudden movement.

"Let's move out, boys. We've got a party to crash."

He smiled at their riotous whoops. "Show time."

XXX

"Can you walk, my dear?" Johann's tone was one of concern, although something else lingered there – an impatient excitement.

Weakly, Mina nodded. He set her down, keeping a hand on the small of her back to guide her.

"Come," he said steadily, "We must get you to a medic. You are clearly unwell."

"I am fine, Uncle." She answered softly, but the strain in her voice was obvious.

"Don't be nonsensical; I will not risk any further damage to your health."

She opened her mouth to reply, but the floor began to quake violently, the cacophonic booming of explosions in the distance. Gun-shots followed, bullets being deflected off of the outer walls with a metallic ringing that pounded in her ears. Her eyes darted to Johann, her heart leaping into her throat, but her uncle stood, perfectly calm, his face a mask of unwavering placidity.

"Uncle," she felt her hands begin to tremble – had Odin come back to taunt her? – "Uncle, what's happening?"

She felt a sharp sensation of ice-cold prickle down her spine as she watched a wicked half-grin slice across his emotionless features.

"It would seem that the Americans have arrived just in time, my dearest." His eyes glinted with a devious amusement. "Do you think that you are up for a bit of excitement?"

"You just said that you weren't going to risk any more damage to my health," her pitch broke halfway through, lending an exasperated tone to her voice.

Johann merely smiled. "Yes well… admittedly, I might have lied out of sympathy for you. Of course now, it would also be terribly impractical of me to send you to a medic in the midst of what could be a small battle against our Americans friends. That would be rather dangerous as well."

"Friends?"

"Metaphorically speaking, of course."

Another explosion resounded throughout the facility and they watched as one of the far metal walls began to tear itself in half. Mina felt Johann's gloved fingers dig harder into her back.

"Let us not dawdle any further, hmm?"

He darted up the flights of spiraling steps, dragging her haphazardly along behind him. The heat of fire spread across the room, the staircase lurching violently above the quaking floor-tiles. Brown-clad soldiers poured into the gaping hole in the far wall, one of them bearing an almost comical-looking shield, with the American flag painted upon it.

"Quickly, Wilhelmina!" Johann snapped. "Do not gawk, move!"

Frantically, she upped her pace, her uncle several long strides ahead of her now. The stairs continued to lurch and quake unstably, as if they might topple over in any second.

Dazedly, she threw a quick glance over shoulder to catch a glimpse of blazing blue fire flying too and fro from HYDRA rifles, the clanging of ricocheting American bullets louder than ever now.

"Wilhelmina!" Johann's voice had risen to an almost frantic shout, "What are you doing? Do not stand there, you will be caught in the fires!"

But everything had seemingly come to a stand-still, the huge brawl before her slowing to a snail's pace.

Odin's words echoed in her mind hauntingly - _They believe that if they engineer an act of self-worth for you to gallantly carry out, that they will have obligated me to grant you the entire essence of my jewel._

This was it then, the act of self-worth. Throw her into the middle of battle; see what she can do, how she'll defend herself.

It was brilliant, if not cunningly deceitful on the part of her uncle.

A wave of rage suddenly pulsated through her. Johann had wanted this – for the Americans to attack. That was why he had wanted these tests at such a strange hour; she was to be the poster-girl of suspicious activity. He wanted to hurl her into the middle of something that might kill her, just to see if the gods would listen to her pleas for help and spare her life in the nick of time.

Naturally. A perfectly engineered act of bravery and self-sacrifice that was sure to sway the picky artifact.

"Bastard," she gasped, as if the breath had suddenly been sucked out of her.

An explosion tore across the vast expanse, twisting and gnarling the metal before her, the next flight of stairs torn in half in front of her eyes. A funnel of hot air threw her backward, slamming her into the railings. Through dust and smoke, she managed to get a view upwards – Johann had thrown himself onto the uppermost platform, in one piece, but completely separated from her. She could hear his angered screams through the sound of detonating grenades, outraged curses coupled with almost agonized cries of her name.

But at that point, she hardly cared. As another explosion rattled the severed staircase, she swung herself over the railings and the jumped down, desperately hoping her training would aid in her a softer landing.

She landed hard on the metal floors, her palms painfully breaking the fall. Dust and hot smoke poured into her lungs and eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks, her rib-cage lurching as she wretched.

Hauling herself onto her feet, her eyes darted about the smoke and fire-filled facility, the main floor raging with HYDRA and enemy soldiers. She looked up at the ceiling frantically, to see even more HYDRA soldiers, her uncle somewhere among them, barraging the Americans with volley upon volley of blinding blue explosions, splashing the grey smoke and orange flames with intense color.

Breaking into a sprint, she dashed across the far wall, taking cover beneath the various parapets above her. Finding protection from the raging battle-field was her only concern at this point, until a stray body lay across the center of her path sent her sprawling.

XXX

Steve Rogers' Perspective

It hadn't taken long for the offensive to start – the Howlers were a swiftly moving force. But of course, he knew that HYDRA was also murderously efficient. Their men were like droids, completely inhuman and terrifyingly quick. Another downfall – it was Steve Rogers and his 150 or so men, against at least a thousand assembled and well-reinforced HYDRA platoons.

Although he was usually very confident his boys' efficiency, tonight he had the feeling that he had badly miscalculated. He knew that Schmidt was no fool – he wouldn't have the entire factory illuminated like a billboard if he hadn't been aiming to lure them in; but still, he'd hoped they would have at least caught them off guard.

Schmidt was nowhere to be seen as the stormed into the facility; only wave after wave of black-clad soldiers.

Rage boiled in his blood. "That Nazi snake," he muttered. The bastard was damnably cunning – nothing surprised him, whilst everything he threw at the good Captain always delivered an impressive shockwave.

Rogers had fisted his way through the masses, but they were severely outnumbered. Even if this was meant to be a surveillance mission, he was hoping to get in and out quick. The volleys of explosives were merely show, but HYDRA seemed to have taken it personally. And their rifles were decimating his men by the tens with every minute passed.

As he'd delivered his shield into the face of one officer, he was almost simultaneously hurled across the room by another, his knees buckling beneath him as he crashed to the floor.

The metal was cold against his skin, but it reeked of sweat and gunpowder and blood. He tried to haul himself to his knees, but he collapsed, the force of the previous blow having sucked all traces of air out of him.

He bided his time for a few moments before attempting to get up again, only to have a heavy, foreign form fall on top of him.

At first, he'd thought it was a corpse, but as his eyes darted to his side, he saw instead a frail-looking young woman, clad in black leather gear, sprawled across him, desperately scrambling to get up. It seemed as if his progress had halted her.

As she pulled herself up to her feet, she nearly tripped again, but he was quick and rose up to hold her steady.

Her head whipped around as his arms held her body upright, her eyes wide with fear.

"Get away!" she screamed, her voice shaky. "Let me go!"

"Who are you?" he shouted, trying to keep his voice level.

She shook her head frantically. "The enemy,"

He loosened his grip on her. "You're with HYDRA?"

Her eyes were pleading. "Not willingly," her voice was a cold growl. "Now, get out of here before they kill us both! They don't give a damn if I'm dressed in their clothes."

She moved to run, but he held her fast, his curiosity getting the better of him. "You mean HYDRA's employing females, kids at that? What the hell are they doing?"

She sucked in her breath, eyes darting about frantically. "No, I'm the only one. Now please go,"

"Listen," he pressed, "Let me help you, let me get you out of here."

She let out a raspy laugh. She shook her head almost mournfully. "No you can't. No one can help me. He'll come and find me." She glanced up at the ceiling. "He'll find me and kill you and all of your men. Trust me."

"Who, Skull?"

"I suppose that's who."

Rogers felt his heart lurch. His head was screaming at him to get the hell out, to leave this kid he didn't even know. But his heart was pleading for him to save her – she looked so innocent, how could she be a tool to Skull?

"Please come with me, you don't deserve this type of fate."

"And neither do you," she snapped.

He opened his mouth to protest, but the sound of HYDRA rifle revving echoed before them. They both whirled as an officer equipped with a monstrous flame thrower took aim.

Rogers moved to push himself and the girl down, but he was too slow – the heat of flames leaped at them, licking at them with a fury. The passage they were crammed into was too small – there was nowhere to duck. They'd be charbroiled.

He closed his eyes, expecting death.

XXX

Mina's Perspective

Everything seemed to dissolve into slow motion at that moment, each movement blurry and out of focus, achingly slow. As the angry flames shot out, her hands flew up, blue fire erupting from them in sheets. The voices swirled in her head like a grandiose choir, chanting, singing, screaming, crying, all in perfect unison. Her head fell back as the blinding blue light shot forward and side to side, enveloping her and the American soldier in a sphere of blinding light. It closed around them, the flames from the HYDRA man's weapon striking the barrier and dissolving almost immediately into sizzling smoke.

On his knees beside her, the American soldier's eyes were wide with a mixture of horror and fascination, but she paid him no mind, arms still outstretched, palms opened.

"Stop this," she ordered, her voice commanding and firm. "Stop of all of this."

The American's expression was one of question, but she wasn't addressing him. She stared straight at the HYDRA soldier, her eyes riveting into the glass eyes of his leather mask. He began to back away, his steps staggering, and she could almost feel the look of fear etched into his features. She looked back down at the American soldier.

"Go now," she lowered her hands. "Leave here, and please don't be tempted to come back. I can take care of myself. Go. Please." She almost pleaded for him to leave. He didn't deserve to die, he didn't deserve to suffer at the hand of HYDRA. Odin had almost spelt it out for her – this was her mission, her burden to carry. No one could save her. The only one who could was Johann, and she knew in her heart that it would be far too late for him to do so when he finally saw sense.

Mystified, he nodded, and gently, she let the barriers down. With a final sweep of her hands, the blue light extinguished immediately.

As he stood up, she looked at him one last time. "Please, I don't want to ever see you again. You cannot come back here. You'll die if you do. Now get out of here. Take your men. Quickly."

He did as she told him – he bolted, screaming to his men to retreat.

Sucking in her breath sharply, she followed him out of the shadows in into the fire. As she did so, blue sparks tingled on her fingertips, and she lifted her head to the heavens.

_My Lord Odin, have I proved myself to you yet?_

She lifted her palms skyward, letting a torrent of blue fire shoot from them. The voices were louder and louder and louder, pounding in her head, racing through her blood, lighting her adrenaline up like a firework. She walked forward, slowly, each step deliberate.

Blue light poured like water down her arms and legs, cascading across her, flowing into the masses of brawling soldiers. Within moments, the light was everywhere, destroying enemies and allies alike. She was in the center of the facility now, surrounded by flowing light, static curling off her hair and body in long, spidery tendrils. Bodies were hurled to and fro before her, the dying screams of men the faintest whispers of echoes in the back of her mind. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply.

Everything was so slow, everything from her movements down to her breaths, her heartbeat. Quiet, calm, concentrated.

_My lord Odin, have I met your desires? Have I satisfied you? Please, so that I may halt this wreckage. Please…_

A deep chuckling resounded in her ears, like thunder. _You have much to learn, little child. But I look forward to seeing how you will exercise my gifts. I trust you will use them wisely._

Within moments, all came to a sudden, deadening silence.

Not a word or scream was uttered, not a sound of exploding bullets or grenades. Nothing. Absolutely quiet, as if she had somehow vanished from the battlefield and lost herself in a bottomless abyss.

She opened her eyes slowly, taking in the carnage, the littering of bodies across the floor, blood staining the floor tiles, dust and smoke raining down from above.

Bile rose in her throat. Suddenly, she felt so weak, as if all the energy had drained from her. Like that night in the laboratory, when she'd first laid eyes on the tesseract, when all of this had first begun.

His clapping broke the silence.

She looked up slowly to see Johann, standing at the edge of the observation deck, completely flawless despite the events that had just taken place. He was clapping his gloved hands together, as if applauding her work.

Her stomach twisted itself into knots as she took in his expression. He was grinning, his face so wicked and cunning and terrible – it turned her blood to ice.

He smiled down at her, chuckling lightly.

"Bravo, my darling." He called down to her, his voice laced with amusement and mocking pride. "Bravo. You have done splendidly."

She returned his gaze with one of horror, for what else could she feel? She had just slaughtered close to half of his army, and how many more Americans?

Johann descended the stairs, followed by a volley of scientists and soldiers, still grinning broadly.

Within a few moments, he stood before her, his face a sickening mask of sadistic pleasure. He looked her up and down, as if inspecting her for wounds, before pulling her into his arms in an embrace.

"My beautiful girl," he purred, his voice deviously delighted. "My little goddess. You have done it, my love. You have mastered the mystery of the tesseract. Its powers are yours now, forever, my dearest." He lifted her chin with a gloved hand. "How does it feel, my princess, to be the pinnacle of power?"

She swallowed the rising bile; she felt sick. "Horrible." She gasped. "It feels horrible."

Johann's face seemed to dissolve into a hard, emotionless mask, the unbridled joy in his features seeping away like chalk mixed with water. When he spoke, his voice was no longer dripping with sweetness – it was forced and cold.

"How could you say such a thing, my sweet? This is what_ you_ – what _we_ have wanted, what we have strived for. Within a few months, HYDRA will be master of the world and all because of you. Isn't that wonderful, aren't you at all happy? Think of it, Wilhelmina. Anything in the world that you could possibly want will be yours. You will rule everything and everyone."

She lowered her eyes to the ground. "No, Uncle. _You_ will rule everything. You and that _Red Skull_. The world will belong to you, and it will crumble as you _better it_ and _revolutionize it_. I will simply be thrown back in my cell. A slave to your cause."

"Wilhelmina, what are you saying?" he held her face in his hands, his grip like iron. "Darling, you know that all I have ever wanted is your happiness. You will change the world with me; we will create a new superior world, both of us, _together_. You will never have to suffer ever."

She looked up at him, staring into his ice-blue eyes defiantly. "If you really meant that," she whispered, "You would not have made me do what I just did."


	15. Broken Promises

**Meine Damen und Herren, I present to you, Kapitel Funfzehn. Also known as chapter fifteen.**

**As always, my sincerest thanks go out to my reviewers, ZabuzasGirl, Blackbird71, MusicWolf7, to name a few – you guys, coupled with my most-likely-but-hopefully-not-insane mind were the soul motivating forces that kept the gears turning and made me WANT to keep writing. Your reviews and precious feedback are beyond valuable to me. I am so grateful to have such amazing readers!**

**So, without further ado, I present you this fifteenth addition of Athena. May all hell break lose now and forever, Amen. In this chapter, I start out with a re-introduction of Victoria, Johann's red-headed (believe it or not, I didn't mean for that to be on purpose, given Johann's own lovely complexion) ex. Lover, re-appearing in a more detailed flashback.**

**I just love Johann. Has anyone noticed how much fun it is to write his dialogues? He's such a cunning serpent and it's just… AAUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGHHH….**

**Hmm, yes, that covers it. Drool-inducing… even though that it is so terribly unflattering and probably very disapproved of by Herr Skull… but hey, we can all happily hide behind our computer screens and revel in his evil awesomeness.**

**Anywho… enough of my strange musings.**

**So, as I was supposed to be doing about seven lines ago:**

**Without further (and I mean it this time) ado, I present to you this fifteenth addition of Athena.**

**I beg you to enjoy… literally, I beg you…**

**Regards,**

**J.B**

**Oh, and does anyone mind my use of adverbs? i.e., (for all of the grammatically-challenged, like me) **_**he replied, **_**snobbishly****. Stephen King says they're tiresome, but I'm disinclined to agree. But then again, he's a million-dollar novelist and I'm just a kid with way too much free time on my hands.**

Johann Schmidt's Private Quarters

HYDRA Base – the Alps

1942

2230 Hours

A washed out greyish purple color, like soapy dish-water. The gods had abandoned their earlier palette. From the waning orange and pink hues, mixed with vibrant blues and flecks of snowy white, to greys and muddied violets, washed out with snow and sleet, dried by the glacial winds, and faded by the daylight.

When the sky was like this, he almost felt a physical sorrow, the bodily urge to lament. The tightening of muscles and quickening of pulse – the lips quirking in a taut grimace, pained, tortured, mournful. Of course, the closer he contemplated this sudden stir of emotions, he realized that it was a rather excessive waste of time.

In the Alps at least, the sky always drained of color at around five o'clock, and continued to do so until night had fully blanketed the atmosphere, bedding down on the clouds, like some monstrous black dragon. Day in and day out, the menagerie of explosive colors, the most vivid hues splashing together, would eventually fade away, washed out by the incoming tides of a burgeoning blizzard, or the darkness of night.

Yet, every evening, he felt a certain compulsive urge to stare longingly through the huge panes of glass, reflecting, remembering, mourning. The sky was a blank canvas for his mind to paint an abstract portrait across, no one image perfectly clear, but rather, overlapping with the other, the colors combining and melding into something entirely new and different.

Tonight was rather unusual though. He had taken up his usual evening routine – poured himself a glass of Schnapps, lit up a cigarette, carefully poised in his holder, and settled down to immerse himself in a volume of Goethe. The same volume that he had taken to reading and re-reading every single night, since 1926, when he was only twenty-three years old.

_The Sorrows of Young Werther._ Personally, he found the choice of literature laughable. After all, a man of his career and persona – an ex. Gestapo Obergruppenführer, a murderer by trade – he was so heavily associated with death and blood and the ever-present evils of war and man that he considered it to be rather ridiculous to be reading about a tortured love-triangle.

Perhaps it was the memory of _her _that still lingered on his conscience, causing his heart to ache for no reason at all.

A ghost of a warm summer's afternoon, spent riding through the tall grasses of a Bavarian valley, glided across his mind.

_Small, delicate, with skin like alabaster and hair like the evening sun, vibrant and full of life. Eyes like the lush meadows that bled out before them into the Bavarian valleys, bright with laughter. Everything about her was so exquisite – it almost baffled him._

_ Superiority and perfection were qualities he meticulously sought for in an individual – two things that Victoria Bradleigh did not contain. Her intelligence was far beyond a woman of her sex and years, but that didn't make up for her personna. She was the complete opposite of what a woman, at least in his mind, should be. Women were delicate, cultured things, much like china dolls. They were inferior to their male masters, obedient servants and companions. _

_She was much too independent and vexingly sharp-tongued – she swore like a drunken sailor and was almost always fiercely opinionated. Even now, their relationship having matured vastly, she still felt it necessary to argue with him for hours over matters that he clearly understood better than she. Naturally, it was nearly impossible for her to accept that she was wrong and that he was obviously correct. Of course, now it was so much easier to simply grab her and kiss her like a passionate fool than to waste his breath attempting to out-do her._

_ In the beginning, they'd avoided each other – their interactions never went beyond a professional level. She was merely an American 'correspondent', present for the soul purpose of observing and proving to her countrymen that the Nazi party only wished to 'better' their country and raise it from its economic stupor and nothing more. And of course, who better to dump her upon than he, the fanatical, mad visionary who had fallen out of favor with the utterly sensible Gestapo._

_ He treated her as she deserved; strictly a business counterpart, formal to the tee. Although, her own formality left much to be desired. Admittedly, he had been much less than pleased to have her company, but still, he had maintained a perfectly gentlemanly composure. On the other hand, she had apparently found something insulting about his behavior, and had, with an impish grin, snidely demanded that he start over with his introduction, as she had deemed it less than satisfactory._

_ From the first day they had met, she seemed insistent upon being the proverbial thorn in his side. Perhaps it was her assertive tongue or her headstrong manner that captivated him, her cheerfully amused tone of voice, the playful sparkle in her lush irises. Of course, her traits also could have simply been due to her – native habitat._

_ Americans were, after all, so very good at being maddeningly contradictive._

_Yet, no matter how bothersome she was, he could not manage to keep his eyes off of her. There was something about her so strikingly different from other women. She didn't act helpless and empty-headed, obsessed only with her appearance. She preferred being covered in engine-grease over feminine fineries and thick, dusty volumes of ancient lore over interactions with other humans. _

_Perhaps it was the fact that she was everything that his ideal vision of a woman was not that intrigued him so. Perhaps it was that her lips were like the smoothest silk beneath his own, needy and insecure. Perhaps it was that her little, slight frame fit so well into his significantly taller, stronger one._

Johann tiredly thumbed through the well-worn pages of the book, unable to savor the taste of the Schnapps on his tongue, or the musty flavor of tobacco smoke that still lingered at the back of his throat.

_ Utterly foolish_, he silently chastised himself. How could he possibly be thinking of _her _at a time like this? At last, the tesseract had given in – at last, he had the most destructive force on earth in his clutches. The world would be taken by storm by his beautiful little Mina and together they would rule.

Why then, was he thinking of some lying, conniving American woman – one who had taken advantage of him and abused his genius, like every other filthy soul in the earth?

He had merely been a toy to her. She knew that he despised the Nazis – she knew that he would willingly spout off their grand plans without a thought, if it meant sabotaging their chances for success. She was the only person in the world who had successfully infiltrated his thick walls, the barriers he had spent years reinforcing, keeping himself isolated and emotionless. She had manipulated his emotions, made him think that she loved him, that theirs would be a love-story to last forever.

And then, she had left him, taking every ounce of happiness he had ever experienced with her.

But none of that mattered now.

He grinned wickedly. Yes, he would take great care in making _her _pay for the humiliation she had caused him. The things he would do to her then, when the world was his. The suffering he would inflict upon her. He ran his tongue along his teeth hungrily.

A sensation of the deepest ecstasy trickled down his spine as he imagined kissing every inch of her alabaster skin, feeling her cringe in fear at his touch, before imprisoning her for the remainder of her days – torturing her, entertaining himself, and causing her the utmost misery.

Oh, it was so _tantalizing._

"Uncle," a soft, tired voice interrupted his thoughts.

Jarred from his daze, he looked up at her, eyes darting about, as if his thoughts had been heard. Absorbing her innocent and ignorant expression, he resumed his calm composure. "Yes, my dear, what is it? Why are you not resting? You've had a stressful day."

Ignoring his question, she curled up on the chaise lounge across from him, staring intently at the embers of the fire.

"So…" she began quietly, "What happens next?"

"What do you mean?"

She glanced up at him, eyes questioning. "What happens now – now that I've… now that the tesseract has… given me its magic?"

"_Not magic_." His tone made her cringe. "Science. _Magic _is the human explanation for that which _cannot _be explained."

"But science revolves around logic." She answered quietly, thoughtfully. "And the tesseract is anything but logical – we can neither understand nor explain it."

"That is perhaps somewhat true, but not entirely. The tesseract, despite its volatile nature, is proof that the gods truly exist. No human has the ability to create such a pure, unadulterated source of power. Thus, we can _begin _to understand it. And, given time, I intend to understand it, as will you. Now is the time for progression and advancement. In the coming weeks, we will begin the first movement of our fight for human superiority and intellectual advancement. It will be a painstaking process, but one that we will achieve."

He watched her expression, her eyes lowered, her lips pursed in a slight frown. Her previous words echoed in his mind, causing his blood to boil with dissatisfaction.

_It feels horrible_, she had said of her imminent power. _Horrible_ – how could she say such a thing? The envy that had coursed through his veins at the sight of her, waves of sheer destruction and chaos rippling off of her body like water. And to have her make such a comment, to be unsatisfied with the gifts the gods had granted her? It disgusted him to no end.

"You are dissatisfied with your… results?" he said quietly, stiffly.

She looked up slowly. "I'm afraid." She answered meekly.

"Afraid of what?"

"That… that I might not be able to control it. That I'll become too powerful – that I'll destroy something without meaning to. It's – it's so much to think about it, to know that if I do something wrong – that maybe the gods will take it from me, that they'll hurt me. And what if I hurt others? I don't want to kill people. I don't want to do harm to anyone. I don't think I'm strong enough to handle it all." Her tone bordered on hysteric, her eyes wide with fear.

Johann took a long drag from his cigarette before clearing his throat. "Wilhelmina, I have already explained to you in quite a bit of detail – I do not intend for you to be destructive unless it is entirely necessary."

"You had me destroy those men at the base!"

"I did nothing of the sort. I never told you to kill those men, I never directed you to do anything. That was _your_ choice – "

"So you're saying that it was my fault, that I shouldn't have done what I did, that I chose to be a murderer?"

Johann probed at his jawbone vigorously, holding back the immensely irritated sigh that he longed to release.

"Wilhelmina, had you not done what you did, you would have died. Yes, you killed both your allies and your foes. But that is war. And war is what we are currently involved in. In reality though, you spared more HYDRA men by doing that than if you had done nothing at all."

"But I killed innocent men."

"Men that would have gladly killed you had you given them the chance. War is war. There is no positive outlook, no bright side, no peaceful outcome. People _die_. It is not ideal, but it is the ways things are."

He crossed the room and came to sit beside her, pulling her gently into his arms. He stroked her curls comfortingly.

"It is the way things are _now_. _Not_ the way they will be. You need not worry about causing destruction, my dear. You will _not _destroy the world. You will _save_ it. I will not lie to you and tell you that no lives will be lost. In fact, I am certain that many lives will be lost. But, with your assistance, we can greatly reduce that number. Society will not fight against you once they see what you can do – how far your abilities stretch. It will not be easy for you, I can promise that. It will be like a shot – painful, but thankfully, very quick. It might only take one trial of your abilities to show the world that HYDRA is not a force to be reckoned with. Once we have demonstrated to them that rebellion is pointless and also unnecessary, given that we wish them no harm, the world will fall into place under HYDRA's guidance."

She looked up at him, her face a ghostly shade of gray. "Will it really be that easy?" she asked softly.

Johann pressed a kiss against her hair. "Yes, darling. I promise, it will be."

"So when do we start?"

He smiled at her sweetly. "Tomorrow, of course. It would be rather over-zealous if we start right now. You need your rest. We need you rejuvenated and ready for action, my dear. Go back to sleep now, hmm?"

She nodded meekly. "Yes, Uncle. Of course."

As his niece quietly departed the main quarters, he could not help but smile to himself. She was still so young and naïve, so incapable of understanding how beneficial death and suffering could be. It was the ultimate form of persuasion – people were so _malleable_ when they were afraid. Much more useful than when they were reasoned with, when they were determined and rebellious.

He chuckled as the image of Victoria Bradleigh ghosted across his conscience. Yes, she would be very malleable indeed. And wouldn't it be such a treat to her _coerce_ her? To have his way with her, to completely and utterly control her. She wouldn't have the gall to be so snide with him then.

It would be lovely. Perhaps he could even create his own genetic line of rulers, to succeed him when he died. He smiled at the thought. Surely she wouldn't mind mothering his heirs. They'd made love before – how would it be any different this time?

He took a sip of his Schnapps, finally able to savor the tart, fruity flavor. Yes, the world would be such a delightful place when it was _all his._

XXX

1942

Southwest of the Bavarian Alps

Proposed HYDRA Factory Site

The mission was quite simple really – no fuss and feathers. That was the way he preferred it. As little human interaction as possible. A short conversation, an agreed-upon fee, a scheduled date and time, and on to the next task on the day's list. Very to-the-point, and in theory, it should have been simple. But humans were so terribly vehement, so vexingly adamant.

Taking a long drag on his cigarette, he imagined the rhythmic pulse of the _Confutatis _movement of Mozart's _Requiem Mass_, drumming his gloved fingers in time against the hood of his car. _Confutatis maledictis, flammis acribus adictus, voca me cum benedictis._

"That is my final offer, _Mein Herr_." His voice was dry, void of the deeply seated irritation that writhed in his chest. "Ten thousand _Marks._" He leaned in, fixing his eyes upon the obese little man before him, tendrils of smoke curling from his lips. "Ten thousand _Marks_ for your starving wives and children while your sons are out fighting the war, yes? Or perhaps, you could keep it all for yourself. Tantalizing, isn't it? To have riches in your grasp?"

_Hmm, _he suppressed a laugh, _He will waste it on cheap beer and gambling._

"You expect me to just up and leave, is that what you want? Why the hell should I? What authority have you to ask such a thing?"

_If you'd like the honest truth, absolutely none, according to the government. _"My good sir, I am an executive of the Nazi deep science division HYDRA." He paused for a moment, taking note of the man's blank look with some disgust. "In laymen's terms, that in itself is more than enough credibility to allow me to take over these lands _and _to take_ whatever_ I desire of anyone's belongings that may be of use to me."

The man bristled, crimson cheeks puffing out. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

Johann closed his eyes tiredly. "Forgive me, sir. I was under the impression that I had already provided you with an explanation of that."

"I don't give a damn what organization you're from! My descendants have lived in this village for over three hundred years! We've stuck through bomb raids, prison camp marches – and you think that you can just waltz into our homes and kick us out? I don't care how much money you give me, you son of bitch – the only person whose making us leave is the _Führer! _ And _forgive me_ if I'm not as _educated _as you, but I haven't seen a goddamned single _Swastika _on you _or_ your personnel! I might as well be damned if you aren't frauds!"

He gritted his teeth and forced a small smile. "Thank you for your time, sir. We won't be bothering you anymore."

With an elegant sweep of his long leather coat, he strode away. Very much the obedient pup, Zola was at his side in moments, earnest and impatient.

"I take it his reply was a negative."

Johann sighed deeply. "Your powers of observation continue to amaze me, Dr. Zola." He resisted the urge to chuckle as he glanced back at the scowling little scientist, indignant at his superior's comment.

"Well, whatever do you propose we do now?" he retorted bitterly.

"Exactly what I had hoped we would have reason to do, Arnim." He smiled sweetly at his assistant. "I simply get to try out my new toy."

Zola glared at him distastefully. "I'm assuming by that you mean your niece."

"Alas, if you must be dull. Where is she, now? Still napping?"

"Exactly where you left her, I'd imagine. Toys do not normally operate by themselves."

Johann chuckled dryly. "It is such a terrible pity that you are inept in the practice of sarcasm, my good doctor. If you weren't, you would find life to be far more interesting."

He moved on, back to the hulking grey-silver vehicle.

"Sir,"

"Yes, Zola?"

"Do you really think it's wise to exercise your niece's abilities so soon? After all, we haven't even tested their limits yet – "

"There is a first time for everything, Arnim, and I intend for today to be just that."

"Yes but isn't it rather risky?"

"Our business requires us to take _risks_, Arnim. We would be nowhere had we _not _taken any risks."

"Yes, I understand but surely it is too soon – "

"For Odin's sake, Zola – would you be so generous as to have a shred of faith in my actions?"

Zola pursed his lips. "I am a scientist, Herr Schmidt. There is no such thing as faith or luck. I thought you knew that."

Johann narrowed his azure irises. "Dr. Zola," his tone was soft and measured, "I know that very well. I also know that I am a scientist in the laboratory, and a revolutionary in the outside world. I will not stand aside and wait decades for the _scientifically correct_ moment to carry out something that my _theory_ has finally deemed _logical._ All good scientists have at some point in their lives accepted the fact that sometimes a simple leap of faith is healthy, and also necessary."

He paused to glance pointedly at the little scientist. "You would not have me consider you to be a _poor_ scientist, now would you, Zola?"

Zola bristled but remained silent. Johann smiled, offering him a mischievous wink. "I did not think so."

Wilhelmina sat hunched in the backseat of the car, folded in on herself in an attempt to ward off the chill air. The thick leather of the uniform that she had been provided with kept out most of the cold, but it was not invincible to the strength of nature.

She looked up as Johann approached, eyes tired and rimmed with purple bags. She lowered her eyes quickly as her uncle smiled and bent down to kiss her head. He took her face into his gloved hands.

"Sit up straight, Wilhelmina; do not slouch." He beckoned her to stand. His grin broadened as she stood up, the HYDRA tunic elegantly draped across her frame. "Wear the uniform proudly, my sweet. Do not look so timid."

"Yes, Uncle."

He nodded at her reply, placing his gloved hands on her shoulders. "How are you feeling today, my dear?"

"Well enough, I suppose." She answered quietly. "Well enough to do whatever it is you want me to do."

He lifted an eyebrow. "What makes you think I am going to ask you to do something?"

"I wouldn't be here if you weren't. You didn't bring me along so that I could enjoy the scenery."

"And wouldn't you be surprised if I had? But alas, you are correct. I do need your assistance. Our correspondents in the village are, rather unfortunately, being disagreeable."

"Why wouldn't they be? You're forcing them out of their homes."

Johann sighed irritably, clenching his gloved hands against her shoulder blades. "Wilhelmina," he took her chin in his thumb and forefinger, "My dear, you know that it is necessary – "

"That you have orders from your majestic master and cannot disobey them lest you wish to be beheaded, yes I know." She cut in sharply.

Johann was silent for a moment at her outburst, but his eyes narrowed to slits. "Wilhelmina," he grabbed her face, clutching it tightly in his gloved hand. "As a leader of this organization, I promise you, I make my own choices. You need not be concerned about Herr Skull."

"But I am concerned about him." She replied. "If he is not here demanding these poor people to leave their homes, what _is_ he doing? No doubt it's infinitely worse."

As she spoke, Johann strode on ahead of her. The HYDRA motorcade had rallied on the steep cliffs overlooking the small village, so as to get a better view of their desired space. Johann stopped at a large boulder, mounting it and staring out into the mountains.

"He is preoccupied with the finer details of our first movement, my dear. Fortunately, he has more pressing matters to tend to regarding our American enemies than to be able to spend the time listening to a childish little girl's overly chatty tongue."

He glanced over his shoulder to offer her a catty smirk. "Fortunately for me, I have all the time in the world to listen to your lovely voice."

She scowled. "Sometimes I wish I didn't have to hear yours." She muttered under her breath. In response, a gloved hand connected with her cheek, delivering a biting sting. She reeled back, swallowing a pained squeak. He smiled, satisfied with the results of his reflexes before bending in to press a kiss on the offended cheek.

"Just a reminder." He said quietly, as if feeling the need to explain his action.

Her scowl deepened.

_Just a reminder, in case you forgot. _The words he'd often said to her whenever he managed to anger her to the highest degree. _You might not return the feelings, but I feel it necessary that you know that of course, I will always love you._

That was then. Only a few years ago, but if felt as if it had been centuries.

She cleared her throat.

"I would think that he would have people to deal with that for him. People like you."

"People like me are busy trying to purchase a piece of land to build a weapons factory on, whilst _Herr Skull_ is battling a regime of hopelessly optimistic imbeciles who refuse to give up."

He shot her a cold glare – as if angered that she had even brought up the thought, as if it made him look _lowly_.

"You make yourself sound rather trivial." She answered.

He smiled icily. "You think so? Or were you under the impression that there were _people_ to do all this for me?"

"Well, if HYDRA is such an expansive organization, surely Herr_ Skull_ would have dealt a share of his control to more than one person."

"Wouldn't that be nice?"

"Or, _you_ are simply micromanaging. Which you seem to have a tendency to do."

"Ah yes, because it is all my fault – I volunteer to overwork myself when I shouldn't be."

Mina shrugged. "You always threaten to take a holiday. You also always threaten to take me riding or to take me to the opera or to take me to Vienna –"

"Yes, you live such an under-privileged life."

She returned his icy grin. "You told me once that it was distasteful to break a promise. And that it was a sin and that I would undoubtedly go to hell for doing so."

Johann chuckled. "And you kept your promises from then on, didn't you?"

"Yes, but the only promise I ever broke was that I told you that I would clean my room on Tuesday and I didn't until Wednesday. Meanwhile, everything you've ever promised me has seemed to go by the wayside ever since you started ousting poor innocent people from their homes so that you could build more of your toys."

He sighed heavily, leaning his head back as if to glare at the sky. "And here I was thinking that we had departed from that conversation."

"You also told me to never assume anything."

"Well then, it would seem that I've failed dismally as a guardian, haven't I?"

"Coming home for fifteen minutes, handing me a trinket of some sort, and then leaving for another three months is not the most ideal method of parenting, Uncle."

"I at least attempted to spend time with you. You were simply too busy becoming ill or not wanting to do anything."

"Seeing as I cannot control what illnesses I contract – and, I never wanted to do anything because you always had to leave right as we were about do something. Why build up my hopes just to have them dashed to the ground?"

Johann gritted his teeth slightly as she spoke – something in her voice tugged at his heart. She meant to be sass, but there was something in her tone that sounded terribly sad – lonely.

Angrily, he bit his lip – he hadn't the time to be distracted by her. Her eyes were so longing – silently pleading for him to halt his work, to take her riding, to tour the countryside – to get away from all of _this_.

He cleared his throat, looking back his men, tensed and ready for action. "Lieutenant," he barked, "Ready the platoon."

"_Jawohl, Herr_ Schmidt."

He nodded in affirmation and looked down at his niece. "Darling, do you remember what we talked about last night?"

Her eyes lowered to the ground below her. "Yes," she answered so quietly it was almost inaudible.

He smiled at her and took her chin his thumb and forefinger. "Do not be afraid, my sweet. You are doing the work of the gods."

"What am I going to do?"

"Exactly what I tell you to do."

Her eyes flickered towards the village below. "You want me to _convince_ them to give up their homes?"

He chuckled and kissed her forehead. "Something like that. But I promise it will be over very quickly. After that, we will go back to the base. Perhaps we will go riding in the valleys. You've never been to the Alps before now. I think you would appreciate their majesty."

She looked up at him, her eyes gleaming. Wet, with tears perhaps. "What if I can't do it?"

"You will. Have faith in yourself – have faith in the gods. Odin bestowed upon you his strength. The rulers of Asgard are with you, my darling. Do this for them, if not for myself and _Herr_ Skull."

Her face drained of color as he said this, and he took her into his arms, cradling her head against his chest. "Be strong, dear one. Wear the uniform proudly. You are symbol of HYDRA now. A symbol of the new world order. Is that not grand?"

She nodded meekly. "Yes, of course, Uncle."

He smiled. "Good. Come now, let us begin. I'm eager to see what kind of performance you will give us."

With a hand placed firmly on the small of her back, he guided her down the steep slopes towards the village. "It will be very simple, Wilhelmina. Allow the power to manifest within you – like at the factory, remember? Like water and fire in unison – don't think about it at all, simply allow it to happen. It will be over very quickly, I promise."

She said nothing; merely stared down at the gravel beneath her boots.

As they neared their target, he halted her, pressing his gloved hands into her shoulder blades. He turned her to face him.

"Walk to the center of the village. Whenever you feel ready."

She nodded, and from the look in her eyes, he could tell she was terrified. He smiled at her. "Go on, my princess. I've readied my men – should you need any assistance, they will reinforce you."

He leaned down to kiss her cheek, patting it lightly. "I expect a grandiose performance."

"Yes, Uncle." She walked forward, her strides short and slightly delayed, as if she were deciding where to place each step. Several more steps, and she turned.

"Uncle," her voice was shaky, almost hysteric.

He smiled reassuringly. "Yes, darling?"

"There are children in the village, Uncle."

He willed the soft grin to remain on his features, despite the increasing impatience he felt in the pit of his stomach. "Do not worry, darling. Those who are willing to be agreeable with us have already evacuated their homes, along with their young ones. They will be unharmed, I promise you."

The words rolled off of his tongue, thick and sweet, like honey; they matched the tone of his voice.

"Who is left?"

"Elderly men and their obedient wives – no one worth worrying over."

She said nothing, her eyes blank and glassy. He nodded at her and slowly, she resumed her descent into the village.

Zola came to stand beside Johann, as he stared on at his niece. "You ordered them to evacuate?" he inquired. The little scientist flinched as his superior shot him a chilling glare.

"I did nothing of the sort, Dr. Zola. A little creative license never hurts, though."

"What do you plan to do with the survivors, if there are to be any?"

"Oh, we'll deal with them after, when my niece is well out of earshot. Line them up before a firing squad."

"You think that's necessary?"

"Does it matter, Dr. Zola? They've done it to themselves."

"You could have warned them."

"Would it have done any good? I am not a Nazi; therefore they consider me to be a liar. That is their loss, and not one that I'm overly concerned about. They would die anyway, were they to live to see my rule."

Zola nodded stiffly. "Of course, sir. They do not deserve to be spared, given their treatment towards us." He looked up at his superior. "Sir, it would seem that your niece is becoming increasingly curious about your… other half. Surely you plan to reveal to her at some point…"

"All in due time, Dr. Zola. I first need her to be productive. My secrets are her rewards for good service. And, given what she has discovered all on her own – I doubt I should even waste my breath explaining my… alter-ego, as it were, to her. She will find out soon enough. For now though, I plan to keep her blissfully ignorant. As long as she partially believes that what we are doing is for the good of humanity – and not for the good of the very few who deserve it – she will be less apt to protest."

"So you are lying to her?"

Johann cleared his throat, clearly irritated. "No, not at all, Zola. Why would you ask such a thing?"

Zola bristled. "I understand now why the Gestapo rejected you." He muttered under his breath.

He expected his superior to shoot him – he was a rather impulsive man – but he instead offered him a sly grin.

"I cannot help that they do not value a sense of humor."

"I would not venture so far as to call it that."

Johann sighed. "Don't be so boring, Arnim. It hardly becomes you."

The high-pitched voice of a young officer echoed in the background. "Sir, she is beginning."

Johann's eyes snapped forward, a devious grin spreading across his face. "At last," he said quietly. "To see her in action. It will be beautiful, will it not, Zola?"

He didn't notice Zola's uncomfortable expression. "Of course, sir," the little scientist's voice was faint. "I've no doubt it will be very impressive."

XXX

Her heart thudded in her ears like a clock pendulum, her blood inching through her veins at the speed of icy sludge. Johann had neglected to explain to her exactly what she was meant to do, but it did not matter anyhow. Death and destruction. Fear.

She was not there to talk – to be a peace-maker. He could do that himself. No, he wanted her destroy – to take the life of a once thriving village as an act of vengeance for their disobliging behavior. But even then – it was not for vengeance at all.

She glanced back at her uncle, his cold blue eyes visible even this far. She could feel them boring into her – urging her forward, eager to watch her _perform_. He had no feelings for these people; they were nuisances, preventing him from achieving his goals. They were obstructions standing in his way and they needed to be eliminated.

He rationalized everything he did – everything HYDRA did – so articulately and gracefully. The true, wolfish nature of it all, the unadulterated evil, was carefully concealed behind those icy irises.

His voice – soft and sweet, dripping with honeyed truths, stretched beyond recognition. He never lied to her – he spoke the truth. Just the truth he wanted her to hear.

She felt bile rise in her throat as she marched forward, but she kept her composure, eyes drilling on ahead, never wavering from the city square in the center of the village.

She didn't want to see the homes on either side of her, whatever faces loomed there.

The village was mostly quiet – tranquil. Flowers spilled from window boxes and garments writhed on their lines in the stiff breeze. The only trace of Hitler's iron grip were the crimson swastikas, dripping like blood from doors and church rose windows. She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, she could almost see the haunting shadow of an octopus with a skull head replacing them.

She stopped in the center of the village, fists clenched at her sides. She was shaking hard – it was all shed could do not to crumple to the cobblestones.

She waited a moment, testing the silence.

_"Hey!"_

Her eyes darted forward. A little bald man stood roughly a meter away – the man her uncle had spoken to.

"_What the hell do you think you're doing? You bastards said you'd be out of here and on your way!"_

From the blood rising in his cheeks, she could tell he was yelling, but the words were faint in her ears. 

"_Hey you! Go on, you stupid bitch! Leave us the hell alone!"_

The blood froze in her veins. She didn't care what he was saying, no matter how insulting. Time seemed to stop as she scrambled for anything to hold – a clear thought, a goal. Lucidity was slipping from her grasp – what was she to do? When? Was she to bring hell down on these people, was she to wait for an order? It was all suddenly so over-whelming, so paralyzing.

"_I said go on! What the hell are those bastards thinking, bringing in some lousy little bitch to do their bidding, huh? Go on! Get out of here! Stupid bit –"_

Fire shot from her palms like the shockwaves of an earthquake. It rippled across her body in rivulets, like fresh rain from heavy clouds. It arced across her spine and pooled from her eyes with an intense heat, like the flames of hell. She was blinded for moments – then overwhelmed with the vibrant hues of the sky and the mountains and the buildings and the bodies and the blood as human beings were flung from their homes, clattering through windows, thrown into concrete. A cacophony of noise exploded in her ear-drums – the shattering of bones, the piercing screams of women, cut off as their corpses were vaporized by the sheer energy of her power. Fire and light billowed around her like layers of transparent silk, blanketing everything and everyone in sight – leaving nothing behind, no trace of life.

And then, out of nowhere – a little girl, still a toddler, was thrown before her eyes, her feeble little body blasted to shards, her high-pitched screeches still audible even after her corpse had long been decimated.

Within seconds, the fire was extinguished, vanishing from existence without a sound.

It had lasted not even five minutes – the entire thing. It felt as if years had hurtled before her eyes.

Mina looked around, surveying the wreckage.

But there was none to be had.

Nothing – nothing at all – remained of that quaint little village. Not a single bone, not drop of blood, not a scrap of clothing.

No hunks of concrete, not even a torn swastika.

Just singed, dead grass.

Shivering, she gasped for a breath of icy air. Tears choked her throat and burned her eyes in the bitter wind, and the acrid scent of smoke and scorched flesh stung her nostrils.

Her body felt dead and heavy, and she sank to her knees, gloved hands hitting the hard, rocky earth with a resounding impact that shook her bones.

Never in her life had seen such carnage, such – such lack of carnage, if that was even possible.

In seconds, she had watched an apocalypse live and die before her eyes. The thought that it had been born from her hands made her sick.

"Darling,"

She felt a hand graze her shoulder. She shook her head quickly and tried to get up.

She stumbled, her knees weak and trembling, but strong arms caught her.

"Mina, darling," He lifted her chin, his bright eyes dimming, his expression turning from one of delight to concern. "My dear, do not do this to yourself." He said softly, stroking her cheeks with his gloved thumbs.

She averted her gaze to the ground, unable to look at him, unable to show him her tear filled eyes.

What good was it after all? He had ordered this – he had done this? She was just a puppet on his string – on the _Red Skull_'_s_. It sickened her to the core.

She pulled away from his grasp, lengthening her strides, increasing the distance between them.

As she neared the steep embankment, his arms were once again around her, pulling her into a tight embrace, his grip like iron.

He forced her chin up. "Darling, why are you like this? They chose their fate; there is nothing you could have done."

"I killed them." She spat bitterly. "I could have saved them – that's what I could have done."

She tried to pull away but he held fast. "What you did was for the good of humanity. These people – their lives are petty and unimportant compared to the thousands of worthy souls that seek betterment. That is the entire definition of what HYDRA stands for. Cut off one head, two more shall take its place. Sacrifice two hundred arrogant and selfish souls to save thousands. Darling,"

He stared down into her eyes. "My beautiful girl, I cannot begin to tell you how proud I am of you. You are so strong, so determined – you will make an excellent leader someday. I know these times are trying – I know that this violence will take a toll upon you. But you must continue to be strong, to be powerful, to be steadfast. That is the only way we will achieve our goals. We cannot do it alone, my sweet. We need your help. And I have every faith in you that you will be able to offer it when the time comes again."

He smiled at her slightly, sweetly; it was not fake, as it had been before.

"Come now," he coaxed. "I told you that I would take you riding in the countryside. We shall return to the base and find you some more proper attire, hmm? I'll have the horses ready – I've found a delightful young mare that I think will suit you quite well."

She looked up at him, her eyes empty and glassy. She pulled away from his grasp.

"I don't very much feel like riding today, Uncle." She answered softly, and headed for the car.

She didn't very much feel like anything. She felt empty and hollow and dead. After a moment, she glanced back at him.

As she met his eyes, she spoke. "You promised me that there would be no children. You lied to me. Again."


	16. Unspoken Truths

***APOLOGIES: for the super, super, super long time it took to update. I'm sorry guys – balancing two AP classes has done nothing to enrich my fanfiction life… or work ethics… * Ladies and Gents, I give you Chapter Sixteen of Athena. **

**As always, I give my sincerest thanks to my lovely readers/reviewers, Blackbird71, Zabusasgirl, MusicWolf7, to name a few!:) Nothing makes me happier after a tiring, LONG chapter (although, weirdly enough, last chapter wasn't too long) than to see lovely, gorgeous reviews! I adore all of you and I love to hear your feedback! And in turn, you have allowed me numerous idea-vent sessions during PM conversations – AMAZINGNESS! That is what all of you are, truly – AMAZINGNESS! **

**So… here we go. Let's get PUMPED. Yeah… already broke out my warm-up gear…. (see, as I write these little blurbs, I haven't even begun writing the actual chapter… so yeah… me in my 80's jazzercise warm-up gear, guys… yeah… BE PUMPED.)**

**Alrighty. Enough chit-chat, yes? Right. Let's get down to business. Short, sweet, and to the murderous point… just as the Red Skull prefers *winks*. **

**Don't pay attention to me, please. I'm a strange child.**

***AHEM***

**Humble Regards,**

**Jasper Quentin Blood MD, PHD (Not that credentials have anything to do with it of course… and no, I'm not really a doctor. I just role-play my own characters. Don't stare at me.)**

**Ok… let's try that again…**

**Humble Regards,**

**J.B.**

***Brownie-Points for those who can name the music and composer in the beginning!**

**XXX**

HYDRA Base

The Alps – 1942

_Lacrimosa dies Ila._

_Qua resurget ex favilla._

_Judicandus homo reus._

_Huic ergo parce, Deus._

_Pie Jesu Domine._

_Dona eis Requiem. Amen._

Long scarlet fingers peeled back pieces of latex, raking across the exposed flesh. Rubber gave away to blood-red skin; synthetic and fake revealed what was raw and real and tangible. What was indifferent and emotionless fell away, exposing the long hidden remnants of what he once was, and what he was now.

"Full of tears shall be that day." His voice was a whispered hush, barely audible over the _Requiem_'s mournful chords. "On which from ashes shall arise. The guilty man to be judged; therefore, O God, have mercy on him. Gentle Lord Jesus, grant them eternal rest."

He held the last face-piece in his hand, unable to avert his gaze from it, unable to look into the mirror before him, unable to face himself – or – that which he was _now_. That creature that loomed in the mirror – that was the only truth he knew now. Everything else was a perfectly fabricated deception – mangled and contorted beyond recognition with each year added to his existence.

He struggled to murmur the last word of the _Lacrimosa_; it burned like ash on his tongue. It had been so long since he had worshipped a God other than himself, for there were no others worthier than he. Perhaps he had been seized by the passion of the music – or the deep sense of failure, of fear or sadness or something he simply could not identify.

"_Amen_," he managed to mumble, head bowed, before finally raising it to gaze into the reflective glass before him, a wicked grin mangling his already hideous features. He gave a harsh, rasp of a chuckle, white teeth gleaming like fangs. Here he was, a deity of immeasurable genius, uttering the prayer written by a man much like himself. Although fortunately, he had the good mind not to squander his funds like the composer before him. Being buried in a pauper's grave was out of the question entirely.

As the lilting movement of the funeral mass came to a close, he set the final piece of his elaborate mask onto its mannequin, carefully hiding it away in its box.

It had been some days since he had been able to remove his synthetic disguise in relative comfort, without the ever-present fear that his niece would discover him.

He often chastised himself – he had no reason to be afraid, nor hesitant to reveal himself to his niece. After all, it was only appropriate that she be made aware of his true identity. It was becoming a nuisance to dance around the subject of his "master's" peculiar absence, although at times, it proved also to be a very plentiful source of amusement to him. The sensation that coursed through his veins, watching her squirm in his grip like a worm beneath a microscope – it was delicious. It was what she deserved after all – poking and prodding into business that could hardly be called her own.

He felt guilt, though – he was too cruel to her, too manipulative. She deserved the truth; he simply could not bring himself to reveal it.

Painful as it was to admit it, he was afraid – deathly afraid that everything he had worked for, the tireless efforts he had made to create a goddess out of a sickly snip of a child, would crumble before his eyes.

What if she feared him? What if she rejected him? The contempt she held for his alter-ego was clearly evident – the hate that glowed in her eyes and thickly layered her voice – it made his skin crawl with a mixture of fury _and_ – fear. A fear that had worked its way deep into his core. It was as if his conscience was at war with his desires.

He lusted for power and strength and was willing to do anything to get it. He would wring that rebellious girl's emotions until she was drier than an Egyptian desert; he would snap her prying fingers, he would set ablaze her haughty smirk, he would gauge out her hollow, tear-filled eyes that looked at him with the most profound sadness. He would mutilate her every feature until she was an indistinguishable blot in the shadows of his vaguest memories – like every other soul that had ever rejected his vision, his genius.

But he could never hurt her – he had been entrusted with the task of caring for that sickly little girl when her mother had died. She was the only thing in the world that he had left, the only thing attaching him to this crumbling shell of a planet, overridden with filthy, greedy imbeciles.

He simply cared for her too much. Or did he not care for her enough?

He was being a coward. He gratefully hid behind the guise of his mysterious alter-ego – content to let her wonder, to let her pry, to let her conjecture and rationalize and conjecture and then rationalize again how his "master" had come to be who he was and what he was.

But he knew, sooner rather than later, his niece's imminent curiosity would prevail.

And that quite possibly would ruin everything.

She loathed and feared the "Red Skull". The killing, the destruction, the manipulation, the pain, the hardship, the lies. That was all the "Red Skull's" doing.

Even though it was not, and he knew it. He had simply been content to allow himself to think that her hatred was being focused on to the "Red Skull" and not himself.

But it was. And what made it so difficult to bear was the simple fact that he and he alone knew that _he_ _was the Red Skull_. _He_ was the _monster_ she feared. _He_ was the heartless _killer_ she so fervently despised.

He was _everything_. He was _nothing_. He was her Uncle, her guardian, her guide. She held great esteem and affection – or at least, he hoped she did – for him. When she was distraught, she came to him for guidance. When she sought comfort and a warm embrace, she welcomed his arms wrapping around her. When she was angry or irritated by him, she could be the devil incarnate – but he always managed to stay one step ahead of her.

When she wept, he held her. When she laughed, he did too, usually at her clumsiness. When she was ill, he worried over her tirelessly. When she was healthy, he still worried over her tirelessly.

She had been the source of joy in his life after Angelica died. The source of simplicity and blissful routine. She was his anchor as much as he was hers.

Life without her – the new world without her – there would be no reason to live, to continue breathing in a place where she was not.

But.

There was always the "but", the catch, the consequence, the downside.

He was the source of her hatred. Her loathing. Her desperation. Her curiosity.

He was the monster that killed, that tortured, that held no regard for anyone or anything but himself. He was the coward that wouldn't show himself. He was the menace that seemingly didn't exist.

How could she love him then, if she knew who he was, what he was? How could she love him then, if her pre-conceived fear and loathing and disgust overpowered the dwindling affection in her heart?

He would be a fool to think that he could have both. Gods be damned, how could he continue to be so selfish?

He was a living lie, breathing life into the web he spun for her, the guise he cowered behind like a weak wretch.

For so long, he had convinced himself that he had been working towards an ideal universe for _her_. It was so much easier to overlook his own selfish, greedy desires if he inserted the perfect model of morality and ignorance in his own tarnished place.

She needed to see – to see who he was. She deserved that much.

But she didn't need to know.

A ghost of a smile hovered over his features.

If she _knew_ who he was, she would reject him or worse – she would beg him to change, to overlook his goals, to be _damnably content_ with the hell that God had blessed him with for a life.

But, if she _saw_ who he was, but did not _know_ that it was him – her uncle, her guide, and of course all of that other plucky, petty rubbish he portrayed himself to be – she would never leave his side.

It was so simple – to give her someone to hate and to focus her hatred on – but her loyalty was to him and would remain so, no matter how painful it was for her.

But over time, he could convince her, coerce her – that his alter-ego was not so evil, so cold, so terrible.

Over the course of time, she would warm to him, and then – then she could know.

But she first needed to _see_.

XXX

The chill tunneling in from the open maw of the airfield prickled against her skin and tickled across her lips. Flurries of snow rode into the air on the wind, dancing and scampering about merrily.

A ghost of smile flickered across her face. Like _the Nutcracker_ – _the Waltz of the Snowflakes_. When she had been barely eleven years old, Johann had taken her to see the ballet as a Christmas gift. Of course, she'd barely had the patience to sit still during the performance, but despite her occasional bouts of boredom, she'd been thoroughly dazzled by Tchaikovsky's masterpiece.

Of course, that was now over six years earlier – a lifetime, practically.

But, the tattered memories that frequented her psyche seemed to be the only things worth holding onto now, from her "old" life.

That life that only a mere month ago was the only one she knew, one of blissful ignorance and petty worries and far-fetched dreams.

This new one was a glistening shell of chrome – empty and emotionless and transient.

Temporary, until the new world was created.

Temporary, until the old one was destroyed.

Temporary, like life itself, to be sharply extinguished by death.

She rubbed her arms, clad in leather, warding off the bitter Alpine cold. He had told her so many lies for so many years – or rather, he'd told her so little that she had been forced to fabricate her own _lies_ to make up for the gaping holes in her reality. He promised her a utopia of sweet perfection. He delivered bloody destruction and selfish proclamations of control. But was it even really his fault? Johann was being brainwashed by a hideously deformed madman, to the point that he would gladly march into a gas-chamber and suffocate if he even once defied his wishes.

But why? What made this "Red Skull" so damned special, for the love of it all? What had he done that was so awe-inspiring, so monumentally fantastic? Had he gallantly doused himself in a radioactive material and walked out looking like something out of _Nosferatu? _It was almost laughable.

She scowled, her face twisting with disgust. She was so sick of it all – the lies, the dramatic façade, the fuss and feathers. Not a word that escaped Johann's mouth was the solid truth – it was all sugar and honey, sweet and innocent with a touch of fanatical idealism.

"Just as bad as the Nazis." She grumbled.

"My dear, how could you say such a terrible thing?" The voice behind her sounded nearly identical to Johann's, the catty smirk on his face evident in his tone, arrogant and sarcastic.

She whirled about to face him, a haughty comment poised on her tongue –

Until her blood froze in her veins, a thick and heavy sludge, cripplingly painful.

Before her, was not her uncle.

A wicked skull face, angular planes sharp as knives, an almost lipless mouth full of pearlescent teeth, tiny and razor-like, grating together in the most hideous grin. Flesh red as blood, smooth and matte, pulled taut like a sheen of thin rubber. A nose that seemed to have stopped growing, merely a triangular alcove balanced upon huge, solid cheekbones. Eyes hooded like a cobra's, casting deep shadows over the frosted azure irises, coated with a silvery layer of ice. Ears like knotholes, brow bones arched together in the most unforgiving glare.

She barely managed to swallow her scream, her throat seized up as if a noose had been drawn tight around it.

Again, he offered a chilling grin, and he lifted a slender crimson hand to her face, ghosting across her cheek, barely grazing the skin. She pulled back immediately, a shudder violently tearing its way down her spine. She wanted to scream at him – to warn him to never touch her _ever_ – but her throat was like sandpaper.

He chuckled – a deep, raspy noise – and with a graceful flourish, he lifted his hand from her face, long, wiry fingers trailing across her curls before falling back to his side.

So long and narrow – a pianist's hands, made to deftly skim across ebony and ivory keys.

"Who – who are you?" her voice was a mere squeak - she knew the answer to her question, it was obvious who he was… but to see him face to face… to comprehend the sensory explosion that every feature ignited…

Another chuckle, sadistic and cruel yet smooth and sophisticated.

"According to my underlings, I am the source of your imminent hatred, my dear _Fraulein_." He smiled. "Such a pity – I had so anticipated meeting the charming intellect that Johann described when he told me of you. I am certain you can imagine my extreme disappointment when I was notified of your bitter attitude, especially when directed towards the goals of my organization."

He smiled, feigning a pouting expression like that of a small child – ridiculous on someone else, but terrifying against the backdrop of his features.

He patted her cheek lightly, his skin unnaturally smooth against her own.

"But that is no matter, at least not now. You and I are here now, and free to speak at leisure. I am very interested in your abilities."

She cleared her throat, barely able to swallow. "You are the Red Skull." She managed to murmur. Her tongue was thick, her brain dumbfounded, unable to formulate a sentence more intelligent than that of a five-year-old's. She wanted to slap herself – face to face with a monster she hated more than anything she had seen or heard of within HYDRA – and her slow mouth seemed intent on humiliating her.

She expected him to respond with a haughty retort, but he merely smiled, flat mouth peeling back like plastic. A raspy chuckle echoed on the wind.

"Am I?" he asked with a singsong delight. "Forgive me – I had not realized."

She frowned angrily, regaining her voice. "A blessing you didn't." she snapped. "Terribly dull name, don't you think? Lacks a bit of originality. I would have expected something more creative from someone as _ingenious_ as you."

Her breath caught as a savage fury flashed across his bright irises, snuffed out as quickly as it appeared.

He smiled, but the action was forced, his skin jerkily molding into the expression. "Sadly, I did not select the moniker myself. You will have to raise that issue with the Gestapo. Unfortunately, the name has stuck with me – it has been some years since I was known by any other title." He shrugged, perhaps in an effort to be casual, but his broad, thickly muscled shoulders rolled awkwardly in the black and crimson coat.

She narrowed her eyes at him – terrified, but at the same time, achingly curious. He had for so long been an enigma, much easier to stew about indirectly rather than be poised face-to-face with him, her tongue powerless, her anger and hatred dulled to a quiet roar, too fearful to speak.

"Where is my uncle?"

He smiled sweetly, although the gesture was hardly comforting. "Quite safe, I assure you. Attending to the final reviews of our new fighter aircrafts in the southern wing, an activity that will require several hours of his devoted concentration. We have plenty of time to discuss – I am sure you have quite a few questions for me, yes?"

She nodded slightly. With a graceful bow, he gestured towards the interior of the base. "Come. As night draws near, the temperatures will drop rapidly. Let us talk in some place more comfortable, hmm?"

XXX

Johann Schmidt/ The Red Skull's Private Library

HYDRA Base – The Alps

1700 Hours

It was room like no other she had ever seen before – mystical, enchanting – cold, modern chrome mixing with old-world leather and antiquities. It was a circular room – like she had imagined all private libraries to be, complete with an alluring secret passage-way. Perhaps it could have been comical, but it was utterly sophisticated here, considering its owner. Books lined the towering walls all the way to the ceiling, three flights of spiral stairs leading from balcony to balcony. Floor to ceiling windows consumed the far wall of the room, opening up into the vast maw of the Alps, swirling white snowflakes swallowing up the view. Paintings of mythical beings were hung at random, along with silken tapestries from China and Japan; Mayan and Incan masks covered in tiny, turquoise squares. Swords of all lengths with straight blades and curved blades hung in glass cases, handles encrusted with rubies and emeralds.

But the books – the book were what intrigued her most.

Thousands of them, meticulously alphabetized in what appeared to be a host of specific genres. Norse, Greek, Egyptian, Roman, Indian, and Japanese mythology – whole encyclopedias of vast and endless knowledge. Engineering manuals, books on physics, astrophysics, chemistry, organic chemistry, algebra, geometry, trigonometry, calculus – Aristotle, Socrates, Plato. Greek tragedies, Goethe's _Faust_, Shakespeare's _Tempest _and _A Midsummer Night's Dream_. And perhaps what peaked her curiosity the most – out of the thousands of books that were systematically packed into every crevice of the room – Leo Tolstoy, Sigmund Freud, Ernest Hemmingway, H.G. Wells, Ernst Toller, Otto Dix, Klaus Mann…

They dominated a whole section of the huge room.

She traced a fingertip along the spine of one gingerly. She turned to look at the creature before her – an almost indifferent smirk gracing his crimson features.

"These books – these were all burned by the Nazis."

His smile broadened. "You are very observant."

"My Uncle brought home nearly every one of these authors for me to read. Despite the fact that we were outlawed."

"I am quite aware, my dear. After all, they were borrowed from my collection."

She looked around, eyes wide with awe. "My Uncle would envy you madly for a library like this. Everything he could ever possibly desire to lay his eyes on is in this room."

He chuckled, though she noticed that this time, no cruelty laced the action. "And do you, my dear, find anything here that… _excites_ your literary fancy?"

She looked around briefly, examining the titles. "Would you be offended if I told you that my tastes were only… slightly appealed to…?"

He smiled. "We are all entitled to our own personal preferences, my dear. Although, for someone of your age, and to possess such great intellect as you do, I would be quite surprised if you were not well-read in these titles."

"I have read quite a few of them, although some of them I do not recollect fondly. I fear that you will be displeased with my _preferences_. I am not as mathematically – _or _scientifically – inclined as my uncle. I prefer history and works of fictional literature to trigonometry or Euclid's theorems."

"And you do not prefer mythology. A pity – I would have enjoyed discussing such works with you."

Her eyes darted upwards.

"Johann has told me quite a bit about you, my dear. After all, I intend for you to be a pivotal asset to this organization. I understand your disappointment at my decision to not appear during the earlier development of your abilities. For that, I apologize. However, I had my reasons. As you have noticed – my appearance can be quite… unsettling to those who are not prepared for it. Therefore, I wanted to ensure that your activities here had advanced and that you had been given adequate time to be… briefed regarding my physical features. You understand, yes?"

She nodded slowly. Unthinkingly, she blurted out "How did you become like that?"

Immediately, she regretted it as his azure orbs iced over with an irritated glare. It lasted only moments, before he quickly diverted his gaze away from her. He strode towards the windows, slender, crimson fingers reaching into a pocket, retrieving a cigarette and a long holder.

She blinked slowly, taking in his features – the holder, so like her uncle's. It was queer…

"I am sorry." She recovered, her voice faint. "How rude of me. I – I did not mean to pry."

He chuckled, the sound a harsh rasp. "There is no need to apologize, my dear. I had expected that you would ask – in fact, I had hoped that you would. You see my dear; you and I are very much alike."

"How so?" Her lips moved slowly, mechanically, forcing the words out, not wanting to know.

He faced the window, his broad shoulders stiff in the black uniform, head held erect in an almost arrogant manner.

"You were once a very sickly child, yes? And when you were so weak that death was on the threshold, when no doctor could cure your ailments, one _miraculous _solution revealed itself?"

"My Uncle gave me a special medicine – some prototype one of his colleagues had been working on…"

"Yes, a prototype. Although, it had steadily been developed – still not the perfected final chemical composition, but close. You see my dear, the "prototype" you were given is known as the Super Solider Serum, a highly advanced steroid created by a brilliant biochemist, Dr. Abraham Erskine. The serum's properties allow for it to penetrate the human muscular system; it creates a stronger, faster, more agile human-being out of something flawed, weak, or simply mundane."

He turned to look at her, his eyes an icy shade of blue. "That was the "prototype" you were given, my dear. That is why you recovered so quickly from your illnesses, why you grew stronger with every day, why you are of the superior strength that you are now." He turned back to the window.

"I too was injected with the serum, although, it was undeveloped and untested, in the stages of its earliest infancy."

He paused to bring the cigarette holder to his lips, smoke curling up from his lips and beyond his head towards the ceiling. He sighed, as in an almost scolding manner.

"My behavior back then – for it was many years ago – was disappointingly impatient and childish. I simply could not wait for Erskine to refine his formula. And for that lack of patience, I paid the price."

He turned to face her, his features wickedly twisted, darkened by the grayish sunset of the Alps.

"And that is how I have come to be that which I am now."

He stood still, shoulders relaxed, his posture almost casual, as if measuring her silence. She stared at him, and he back at her, his eyes unwavering, hers glassy and thoughtless. He glanced down at the desk before him, papers littering its surface.

"When you were but eleven years old, Johann came to me, requesting my advice. You were on to cusp of death – and he had been a loyal follower of HYDRA, advancing rapidly in the ranks. I felt it my duty to oblige him, to offer a suggestion – I procured the newest vial of Erskine's serum, still unpatented and unofficial, but the closest to form to perfection. It saved your life, and created the young woman you are now. With your previously weakened state, you would have died without its aid."

She continued to stare at him levelly, her vision slowly draining of color. She blinked rapidly, clearing her sight. "Why did you choose to save _me_? What good am I to you? I was a little ignorant child, an orphan shafted off to a simple _scientist._ I was of no use to you – you had no personal connection to me. You didn't know me. Surely you weren't just doing it as a random act of kindness."

He chuckled dryly. "Perhaps not. I have never had a particular fondness for children. However, I have known for quite some time about your superior intellect, my dear. Having no heirs of my own, it was pivotal that I find _someone_ suitable to take my place. Although I strive for perfection, I fear that the key to eternal life may forever evade my grasp."

He lifted his cigarette holder to his lips. "Johann has been my finest and most dedicated scientist since the birth of HYDRA. I saw it only fitting to bestow upon him leadership after my death, and after his, yours. Naturally, he accepted. It will be a great honor for him, to see his niece become a celebrated revolutionary and queen."

"Queen," she answered bitterly.

He smiled, teeth white against his gnarled red skin. "Of course. I would not have you addressed as anything less."

"And what makes you think that I want to be _queen?"_

"I have no inclination to believe that you do. Yet."

"I will not, _ever_." She snapped.

He smiled at her, the expression absolutely horrible. "But you will, my dear. Johann has explained to you in the utmost detail the true nature of our plans. You are the jewel of Odin, child; you alone possess the power to create a world of peace and bliss. You alone can stop the wars that tear this world apart."

He crossed the library to stand toe to toe with her, his neck craned to meet her eyes. He was so close to her, her back pressed against the book-lined wall – she wanted to scream.

Again, he lifted a slender hand to her cheek – she expected him to grab her, as her uncle would in a fit of rage but – his touch was gentle, as if to comfort. It made her sick.

"You may think that I am a madman, my dear. You may think that I represent all sorts of cruelty and evil. You may think whatever you want of me, but you must first see all truths."

She glared at his hand, still poised against her cheek. He held it up, as if in minor defeat, and let it fall to his side.

"What truths do you speak of?" she said defiantly.

He nodded in affirmation. "Why do you think your Uncle insisted that you be well-read in these titles?" He traced a wiry finger across the spines of the condemned books. "Why do you think he exposed you to the massacring of thousands of Jews at every minute of every day? Why do you think he had you wear our insignia instead of a Swastika band around your arm?"

He inhaled sharply. "To educate you – to _show_ you how horrifically this world is damaged by war and greed and evil. _Real evil_. You think that because we have weapons that we are bloodthirsty power-mongers. We do not believe in needless killing, my dear. We advocate the end of war, the end of greedy, delusional men."

He grabbed her cheek, his long fingers grazing her temple. "And whether you choose to accept it or not, you, dear girl, are the most powerful being on this earth. You were given your abilities for a reason – the gods of Asgard do not simply hand off their gifts to simple mundanes – no. _You_ were chosen. _You_ are destined to save this world – or destroy it. And in the end, even I am forced to acknowledge that you are either _with us_ or _against us_."

She looked up at him, her eyes flickering from the top of his crimson hand to his glowing azure orbs. "You – you are giving me a choice in this?" her voice was meek – barely a whisper. "But – your officer said – I would be imprisoned if I refused and harbored as a power-source."

He stared back at her, eyes grim and cold. "The gods have bestowed upon you a power like no other, my dear. Not even my weapons, powered by the tesseract's energies, can stop the carnage you could manifest. I am not so foolish to think that either myself or my men could ever forcibly decide anything for you. Although we are equals in strength, you are the only individual in the entire world to possess the power to save or destroy."

He offered an empty smile. "Rather lonely, isn't it? To be the only one of one's kind, to have no allies, no friends. You have been given a destiny by the gods of Asgard. You may admit it aloud, you may not – but the gods have spoken to you, they have bestowed their gifts upon you for a reason. And you must honor that reason, whatever it is. The gods do not advocate those of weak faith and endurance. They chose you, specifically, for some reason."

"And you are going to have me tell you that reason?"

"I am not." He traced a finger along the contours of her jaw. "But I ask that you remember at least one thing, my dear, when the time comes for you to choose whose side you are really loyal to – when you have fully mastered your abilities."

His hand slid across her skin, long fingers hooking her chin and lifting her face to look into his hooded eyes. "You are indebted to me. Perhaps a superficial thing for me to mention, but I dare not let you forget. Had I not suggested that you be injected with the serum, you would not be where you stand now. You would be dead. And you and I and Johann know that to be true. So I ask you: will you choose to be loyal to those who have been looking after your best interests ever since you became an orphan? Or will you choose to be loyal to the potential hundreds of thousands of souls who will mindlessly claim to be your friends, your allies, people you don't even know?"

He smiled again, his teeth a pearlescent white, razor-sharp. "Regardless of who you choose to side with in the end, Wilhelmina, I want you to know. I will not stop carrying out my mission. I will take on this ravaged world and put an end to our never-ending grief and greed and destruction – or myself and my successors will die trying. However powerful you are, I still have a weapon only slightly outdone by your own abilities. And when you have fought your battle, cemented your allegiances, lived your life – when you think that all of your worries, all of your foes, have disappeared – HYDRA will still be here. For we are the only adversary worthy and able of fighting you. And we will fight you, if you choose to be on the opposing side. And we will show you no mercy. And _you _will be fighting the very individuals who cared for you, who taught you, who raised you. Will it be so easy then, to call us names, to call us evil, to direct all of your hatred at us?"

He removed his hand. "Remember that."

Her cheek burned, as if a layer of ice had frozen over the skin where his hand had been.

He rasped an order at one of the guards, patiently standing at the doorway – something about a projector. He turned back to her and smiled, this one utterly wicked – no semblance of any gentility or sophistication. Simply feral cruelty.

"And now my dear, I would like to give you a brief glimpse of the matters I was attending to during my absence these past weeks. I would like to introduce you to our most illustrious enemy."

He waved his arm with a flourish, gesturing towards the chaise-lounge at the far end of the room.

"Please sit, my dear. Make yourself comfortable – I promise it will be a most entertaining event for you."

He nodded at the guards who were attending to a projector screen.

The screen lit up the room in a wash of black and white light, a blur of images dancing before her.

_A young, strapping man – bedecked in an utterly comical looking uniform. The American flag, covering his body, a large, circular shield covered in stars and stripes. He beamed, gallantly punching out ridiculous looking little men, dressed up to look like Hitler – he even had that horrible little mustache._

"The Americans?" she inquired, her tone half-heartedly questioning – of course, the answer was obvious.

The Red Skull offered her a slight smile, although his eyes gleamed with a barely contained rage. He was obviously disgusted by the showing – it was an unprofessional mockery, a horrible play at propaganda.

"That, my dear, is the Americans' savior – their beloved "Star-Spangled Man". More formally known as Captain Steven Rogers – Captain _America_. He is there hero – he is what supplies them with a seemingly endless source of false hope."

_The reel ended – flashing briefly before transitioning into the next set of film. Next – industrial factories – the skull-faced octopus bedecking every patrolman and scientist – the buildings burning to the ground. Throngs of American soldiers stormed the structures – led by a tall, muscular man in a brown military uniform, a circular blue and white shield at his side…._

Her blood seemed to freeze in her veins.

_A tall, muscular man – a circular blue and white shield – beckoning her to come with him, to safety – away from all of the madness and bloodshed. The man who had foolishly tried to save her from a fate she had sealed._

"Is something wrong, my dear?

A shudder coursed violently down her spine – her lips parted as if to speak, moving, but only silence leaked from the void.

She turned to look at him – his brilliant irises gazing into her own, intent on drilling holes into them.

"That – that man – " she whispered, her voice rising with a frantic urgency. "I – I saw him. He – he spoke to me – he saw me destroy the enemy troops – he saw me – use the tesseract's essence."

She waited for him to respond, but he simply stared at her, lips pursed, hooded eyes dark and indifferent. When he finally spoke, his words were like ice.

"He – " he dragged out the word, the syllable lingering on his tongue, his tone quiet and measured, " – what?"

"He spoke to me." She whispered. "He saw me use the tesseract – he – he must know that I have its power."

She opened her mouth to explain herself, but he had already stormed towards to the entrance, his eyes blazing like blue fire. He barked at the guards, his voice a rattling hiss.

"Remove her to her quarters immediately."

"Have I done something wrong?" her voice was a frightened squeak – a shudder violently coursed down her spine. "What could I have done? I didn't mean to – "

"It was not your fault, _Fraulein_. Please, relax. I must simply take care of some safety precautions – all for you well-being, I assure you." He had resumed his sophisticated composure, his voice flat and monotone, although his eyes seemed to glow. He glanced at one of the soldiers. "Escort _Fraulein_ Hofstadter to her quarters. Now."

The soldier offered a curt nod before roughly grabbing her arm, pushing her towards the exit.

"Where is my uncle?" She practically gasped the words.

He cast her a side-long glance, his eyes flashing vivid blue with rage. "He's busy." He snapped and stormed out of the room, leaving her to be dragged hap-hazardly out of the library.

XXX

Raged blurred his vision, set his veins alight with fire, set every muscle tensing, seized up, coiled and desperate to spring.

"Herr Schmidt, we've intercepted an American radio message," a young corporal was shakily recounting beside him, his immature voice a deafening screech in his ear-drums. His fists clenched in fury as he whirled on the soldier.

"What makes you think I give a damn, boy?" he growled, his voice harsh and grating, like a feral lion's roar. "We intercept over hundreds of American radio transmissions every single day, you idiot. What makes this one so goddamned special?"

The corporal was shivering violently, his Adams apple bobbing as he gulped. "The American main-base is transmitting a message to all of her sister-bases within a three hundred kilometer radius – that HYDRA has kidnapped a young female – holding her as a hostage. They plan on launching a mass invasion to free her."

His teeth grated together, his lower lip protruding outwards with his animus under bite. "Relay the message." He barked. The corporal nodded and scurried down their narrow corridor, a secret passage into the mainframe radio hub, deep within the cavernous belly of the HYDRA base.

His strides lengthened as his pulse quickened and the heat of anger flushed through his skin. Zola appeared at his side within moments, jogging to keep with his pace.

"What now?" he snapped irritably. "What intelligent observations have you for me now, Zola?"

"You should have expected this!" the little scientist snapped, his face pulled into a taut frown, somewhat reminiscent of an angry little pug. "You were the one who wanted her to throw herself out in front of the Americans! You were the one that wanted her to show the world what she was!"

"Do you not think that I anticipated an American retaliation, Zola? Do you really consider me to be so tactless?"

"Then if you had anticipated it, why are you suddenly so terribly enraged, so fury-stricken because that imbecile Rogers _saw her_? Of course he _saw her_! That's what you wanted this whole time! What on earth is the problem now?"

"He spoke to her." He growled.

Zola gaped like a dead fish. "So what?" He cried out. "Whatever is the matter with that?"

"They think that we are holding her as a hostage – they probably think we captured her to entertain ourselves rather than use her for her power. And as a result of that, they now plan to invade every single factory and plant we've built to find her. They're going to "save her" all because that simpleton with a shield thinks that she is in danger, all because his flimsy heart cannot comprehend the realities of war. Do you have any idea how tiresome _that_ will be to simply stave them off? They think they're committing an act of valor rather than a waste of time. And if they do somehow succeed to "free her", they will have the source of power that I have slaved to procure."

"Didn't those consequences occur to you before-hand?" Zola countered.

Johann's eyes glittered with a savage rage. "Do not think me a fool, Zola. The tesseract responded to our charade and that is all that matters. We simply have to isolate her now – keep things quiet, non-descript. The attack on the factory was days ago – they most likely caught wind of our mobility yesterday. I will have her sent back to Berlin for a month or so – it will be enough to shut down their suspicions."

"Sir,"

He glanced up at the young soldier – they had entered the radio hub, a vast network of sprawling cables and intricate machines, hundreds of soldiers bent over them, listening intently.

"Amplify it, Corporal." he barked.

The soldier nodded curtly – a shock of loud static echoed through the concealed room before waves of sound progressed through the speakers.

_Attack on HYDRA factory – young female, German ethnicity, Caucasian – held hostage by Red Skull – alert all bases immediately – may have connection to HYDRA power source – vaporized over three hundred men, HYDRA and Allied – invasion on HYDRA factories within three hundred kilometers – twenty-four hours from 0200 – may be employing minors as experimental subjects – further investigation immediately – over and out._

And there was silence – listless and heavy on the air.

Zola glanced up at him in question. "So – is that all? Is that all they're going to do? We've tackled their invasions before – they've only been successful in causing bothersome havoc."

"That is not my main concern Zola." He glanced at the corporal. "Is that all?"

"Yes, _mein Herr_. How shall we proceed?"

"Not now." He rubbed his temples vigorously. "Allow me the time to consider our next course of action."

He glanced at Zola. "Walk with me now."

Zola sighed and followed his superior out into the corridor. "So what exactly is your main concern?"

"He spoke to her." He repeated, his voice a low growl.

"And I shall repeat my previous inquiry – so what? Why should we care?"

Johann whirled on the little scientist – so close to him that the little man was nearly pinned to the wall. "Rogers is a childish imbecile with fleeting passions, Zola. My niece is an equally childish adolescent – _also _with fleeting passions. My main concern is that that simpleton tried to connect with her – he would not have started such a fuss had he not cared about her. But that is simply it – he is physically incapable of removing his emotions from the most emotionless activity man has ever invented – _war_. Rogers thinks that it his duty to save every idiotic wretch from danger – he believes that we have kidnapped her and that she is some helpless damsel in distress. My main concern is that he will run after her – or something even worse. That she will attempt to run after him. She associates HYDRA and the "Red Skull","

He offered a mock gesture towards himself, a flourish of the hand. "With death and destruction and thus focuses her hatred onto us. Rogers is a glorified actor – he is an emotionally-motivated child with an overly-zealous desire to spare every innocent from violence. She obviously associates him with good. I cannot allow for him to contact my niece in anyway, or she to come in contact with him. Thus, I will send her to Berlin for a month or so – an adequate amount of time to shut down any American investigation."

Zola nodded slowly. "I suppose I understand your train of thought." He mumbled. "However I do feel it necessary to point out – was the act of luring the Americans into the factory really worth the consequences it has now brought us? Do you really think that it spurred the tesseract's sudden agreement?"

Johann stared at him levelly. "Yes, I do. If it hadn't, she would not have been able to do what she had done that night."

Zola was silent.

"If you think that I believe my decision was in vain, I do not."

Zola cleared his throat. "I understand that – but I simply cannot wrap my head around why this American activity is affecting you so strongly. I cannot agree more that Rogers' judgment is clearly clouded by his affections for the human race – I can understand that it would be completely feasible for him to have an unrelenting desire to investigate just why exactly we have a young girl in our company – I have no doubt it looks odd. But at the same time – the Americans have investigated and invaded and done everything in their power to meddle with our goals – they are a constant bother, but I imagine we are as such to them. They are unrelenting; neither are we. But what makes you so certain that your niece will be inclined to somehow connect with the Americans?"

"Because I cannot convince her to see that we are the benefactors in this world – that we are the superior force, the saviors of mankind." He snapped. "She has diluted herself – she believes that we are naught but Nazis, thoughtless destroyers, brainwashed into purifying our race. She sees bloodshed and death and thinks that it is all we stand for – that we only hunger for power and control. She does not see us for what we really are – she sees us for the twisted image her mind has created. She cannot comprehend what we desire – she _refuses_ to comprehend it. I had hoped that she would finally see sense when the tesseract's powers were fully imbued into her body – when she destroyed that village. She has wielded her power – she must know that she is invincible – she can demand of the world whatever she wishes. But she refuses to learn and utilize her abilities for what they were destined to be used for. She wishes to hide behind the shadows of Captain America and Hitler and anyone else that is powerless."

He paced through the corridor. "I wanted to demonstrate her abilities to the Americans – to show them that their cause is hopeless – not even their beloved _star-spangled man_ can save them from the devastation we will cause. But as usual, Rogers is a blind sap, hell-bent on sparing the innocent and ignorant. He feels it his civic duty to hunt down this "mysterious girl" and save her – he thinks that we are her captors; perhaps he has decided that we are harvesting children from some grossly exaggerated theory. He will continue to be a proverbial thorn in my side until he meets his death in battle field – and if he does not, I shall take great pleasure in killing him myself."

He glared at Zola with a savage wickedness that made the little scientist cringe. "Until then, I am forced once again to defer to our American adversaries and send my most pivotal weapon away – in our most trying time, when she could finally be useful. But – until I can prove otherwise, I am convinced that our charade at the factory was necessary, if not vital, to our cause. A month or so of minor inactivity is a small price to pay for the power we have collected. Besides, we have no choice but to continue on with our cause using what weapons we have already perfected." He smiled. "The Americans would not know what to do with themselves if we were to stop our campaigning altogether."

He turned on his heel, briskly striding towards the library. "Any more questions, Zola?" he called over his shoulder.

The little scientist sighed, deflated. "I suppose not. You seem to have everything down to a science."

He watched as his superior grew smaller and smaller in the distance. "I hope."

XXX

Johann Schmidt's Private Quarters

Mina lay sprawled across the leather chaise-lounge, her eyes and temples throbbing as she stared at the portrait of HYDRA's leader before her. The waning half-light of the sunset – or what was left of it, given that the sky had been swallowed up by black clouds – cast a dim shadow across the room.

She perked up slightly as a click sounded, and the main entrance slid away from the wall, a lanky silhouette striding into the room. She leapt from her seat, running to Johann, throwing her arms about him. She buried her head in his chest, nearly sobbing as she felt his strong arms catch her.

"What is it, my dear?" His tone was gentle, concerned – a stark contrast from the fake gentility of the Red Skull. "What is the matter?"

"I spoke to him." She mumbled into his chest. "Uncle, I did something to make him upset – I don't know what. Something about some American soldier – some _Captain America_ or something."

She tried to say more but he shushed her coaxingly, stroking her curls. "Hush darling, I know everything that has happened. You have done nothing wrong – there is no need for you to be so concerned."

She sniffed; her eyes watery as she looked up at him. "What happened? Was he angry?"

"Of course not, my dear – not at you. This all has simply come at a rather inopportune time for our – incentives. However the issue will be dealt with – you will simply be returning to Berlin for a little while, to rest and recuperate and so that HYDRA may keep you out of harm's way."

Her eyes narrowed, inquisitive. "What do you mean, 'out of harm's way'?"

Johann sighed and released her from his grasp. "It is nothing, Mina. It is simply a matter of security. You see, at the factory that night – when you collected the tesseract's energies – when the Americans attacked, your abilities were exposed. Now, with great power comes the great intrigue of other enemy forces – forces that would have every desire to use your abilities for their own means. That is why we are going to send you away for a little while – a month or so. You will be going home – does that not make you happy? That is what you wanted, after all. Do not look so forlorn now."

She looked at him, feeling as if her heart had jumped into her throat. "Home? … Away from here?"

"Well, the last time I recalled, we lived in Berlin."

"But I will be coming back here?"

"Within a month's time. Give or take a few weeks, perhaps."

Her tongue seemed to catch in her mouth. "Back here – to the Red Skull? To be… used… for other activities?"

Johann eyed her grimly. "Of course. We simply need to shut down any American suspicions. That is all. To keep you safe, of course."

He turned to pour himself a glass of Schnapps. "Now, I will not be accompanying you to Berlin. I will make sure that you get home safely, but I will be leaving immediately after – we have important business to take care of, business that can be taken care of with our current weapons. I trust that you will be responsible and not delve into any foolishness, Wilhelmina. I am trusting your judgment. You will not leave the house without a security detail – a detail of twenty men have been dispatched to guard the house, and guard you. They will be watching you at all times. Both to ensure your safety," he offered her an almost chiding expression, "and to ensure that you do not do anything irresponsible."

He walked over to her, patting her cheek lightly. "I also trust that you will behave yourself, and keep up with your studies, of course. I expect marked improvements in your Latin and that Liszt solo we had been working on." He bent down to kiss her head, smiling slightly. "My good girl – I will miss you until your return."

He then strode out of the room, into his laboratory – leaving her alone, and somewhat confused.

But her flurry of questions did not matter to her as much as one thing did.

She was getting out – away from HYDRA. She was going home. She was escaping.

She licked her lips, suddenly dry, her throat choked.

She could finally leave this hellish place – that hellish man, the Red Skull.

But his words echoed in her mind – "_HYDRA will still be there."_

It would always be there – haunting her, forcing her, manipulating her.

A constant in a world ravaged by greed and war.

But it was greed and war itself.

And she had a destiny.

One that not even the Red Skull knew about.


	17. Fallen from Grace

**Ladies and Gentlemen, with lacking bravado and aching wrists and a fatigued long-suffering cough, I present to you Chapter … wait for it… SEVENTEEN. *cue the last thirty seconds of Sweeney Todd's **_**My Friends**_*** Ahem. Anywho… I am delighted to say that I FINALLY THANK JESUS finished chapter sixteen of Athena. Lawdy, I thought that beast would never die. It just sort of sat their growling and biting at me every time I moused over it. By the time I finally got 'round to hiring some poachers to tranquilize it, that puppy was so rabid it was outta style. But… I did manage to finally subdue its ravenous jaws and put a tight leash and muzzle on it. Now, one must let bygones be bygones and move on to the next stage of Wilhelmina's Hofstadter's little adventure. Can I get a hallelujah?**

**All that weirdness aside, let us continue. Of course, thank you to my wonderful readers and reviwers, Zabuzasgirl, Musicwolf7, Blackbird71, and anyone else who read, reviewed, favorited, or followed this fic. Truly, I would be nothing without your continuous support, inspiration, and feedback. Thank you so much. **

**And a special exclusive thanks to Musicwolf7, for putting up with my near-constant private messaging – you have given me so much advice and inspiration! Thank you so much!**

**Anywho… let's get this show on the road.**

**Regards,**

**J.B. **

**If anyone cares, this chapter was inspired by a few musical pieces… **_Scheherazade _by Rimsky-Korsakov, _Symphony of the Night _by_ Leaves' Eyes, Funeral March _and _Darkling _by _Sirenia ,_** several Mozart and Chopin works (all mentioned in different chapters), and of course, the entire Captain America Soundtrack.**

**As a small side-note, which I urge you to pay attention to, an OC will be introduced in this chapter, albeit briefly – Mina's father, Wolfgang Hofstadter, and an adversary of Johann…**

**Enjoy!**

Berlin, Germany

1943

Three months had passed. Three long and listless months. Winter melted into spring, her sixteen years progressing into seventeen, the war moving along at a sluggish but no less decimating pace. Day in and day out, a detail of HYDRA guards, clad in black leather, patrolled every inch of her uncle's lavish residence, inside and out. Day in and day out she slogged through every Chopin composition, every Norse epic, every long list of algorithms. Velvet and Tulle dresses, tiny boxes of pearls and lacey gloves and other superficial trinkets sent from Paris as gifts; reassuring and cheery letters from Johann, showering her with praise and stern reminders that she practice and progress. She worked alone, took her meals alone, spoke to no one. The cook and the scullery maid offered bits and pieces of small-talk, but were often shooed away by the HYDRA guards, ordered to strictly monitor any and all conversation and activity. All for the fear that she would be discovered by the Americans – or anyone, for that matter. She was a prisoner in her own home, the home that she spent much of her later childhood in.

She wasn't allowed to leave – she couldn't go to the market or to the park – not even the library. She couldn't speak to anyone, friends or strangers – though truly, she had no friends. If it was absolutely necessary that she leave, she was accompanied by unmarked guards, so as not to bring attention to herself. Air raids peppered the city, and in the middle of the night, she was dragged from her restless dozing out into the cool air, thrown haphazardly into the bomb shelter, stared down by six masked guards, silent and lifeless. She endured daily drills, flexing her powers, working them, so as not to "forget" how to use them.

It made her sick. When his letters came, she tossed them into the fire, watching them burn down to glowing embers. His words meant nothing to her. She was a prisoner – just as the Red Skull had wanted her. Johann made everything seem so superficial and fake and lovely. He paid no mind to her forced isolation – life was just a goddamned picnic and she shouldn't be so forlorn and cynical. She should have been seizing the day, happy and content to be locked in a large and empty house, drowning in the pains of piano-induced carpal tunnel, her brain swimming in calculus as she cheerfully embroidered napkins with the HYDRA insignia.

The life she had lived several months ago had seemingly dissolved into this false reality, what Johann perceived to be a blissful little holiday for her, a lovely little vacation from all the work and labor.

But it was more hellish than anything else. Immediately after Johann and _the Red Skull_ felt that it was safe enough for her to come out of hiding from the Americans' tirelessness, she would be dragged back into the depths of HYDRA, destroying villages and massacring innocents – all to create their idealistic vision of the world. No doubt it would be stained with blood and reek of burnt flesh.

When she wasn't being dragged from her bed to the bomb shelter, her sleep was fitful – riddled with nightmares, vivid images of that gnarled, crimson face. That hungry grin with teeth like razors, lustful for flesh. Johann's letters were of no consolation for the dreams that charged her restless mind. Her heart ached with emotions she couldn't place – a part of her longed for the earlier months, when she had been ignorant, innocent, normal. But even then, her simple, idyllic life would have come crashing to a halt within several months' time. If anything, her interruption of HYDRA's endeavors had been a blessing. Had she never boarded that train in the middle of the night, had she never barged into her uncle's laboratory – HYDRA's destructive rampage would have continued unscathed and in the end, Johann and the _Red Skull_ would have had their way.

What would she have done then, when her uncle, beaming with a wicked delight, welcomed her into an engineered apocalypse?

At least now she had some semblance of an idea of what they planned to do. But when would they strike? When would their revolution begin? Would they be transporting troops to every continent? Even the _Red Skull_ could not have such hubris as to think that he had the man-power to take on the world. Armies would rise – the Americans, the British, the Soviets.

But as often as she tried to push the image of the wicked skull face from her mind, his words still rang in her ears.

"_Regardless of who you choose to side with in the end, Wilhelmina, I want you to know. I will not stop carrying out my mission. I will take on this ravaged world and put an end to our never-ending grief and greed and destruction – or myself and my successors will die trying._"

As she lay in bed at night, staring up at the ceiling, eyes glassy and throbbing with fatigue, his voice was there, like a haunting melody, a breeze funneling through a cemetery, cold and bleak and consuming – a never-ending vortex – she could drown in it.

"_And when you have fought your battle, cemented your allegiances, lived your life – when you think that all of your worries, all of your foes, have disappeared – HYDRA will still be here._"

Who was she to think that she could stop HYDRA?

Who would she ally herself with? Who would believe her story? That _Star-spangled man_, Captain America?

And how would she get to him? He was in America, or some American base. She was a mere child, with no money or resources. She could escape her guards – but if she ran, where would she go? How? She could afford a train ticket, but then what, and to where? Switzerland – neutral territory?

Johann was not a fool. If she was as indispensable as he made her sound, it wouldn't be a stretch of the imagination to believe that he had spies posted in every country in the world. There was no place for her to run, no one she could alert – no one would believe her. The Gestapo was no better than HYDRA and they had long since written them off as a bunch of fanatical madmen with childish fetishes for magic.

And if by some miracle she did manage to escape, to forge an alliance with someone, anyone – it would mean betraying the man who had taken it upon himself to raise her, to educate her.

She thought of her mother – had Angelica known of her brother's sick fascination with purifying a tainted race, a filthy world? Had she known of his ghoulish master? And if she did, would she advocate Mina's actions? Would she abandon him – give up on him?

A part of her – albeit, a small one – wondered if HYDRA really posed a threat, if they truly were as evil as she made them out to be. Was she simply better off bending to their will? After all, their goals seemed to be in the favor of humanity.

But the rest of her knew that the idealistic vision that the Red Skull had crafted for his followers was a falsehood. Advocates of continued life, of peace and equality, did not massacre whole villages simply because they needed the space to build a factory upon.

To thoughtlessly kill so many for such a trivial matter – HYDRA was a force to be reckoned with, a force to be _recognized_.

And though she longed to convince herself that it was not her place and not her battle to fight, she knew that such a hope was lost.

She had been given a destiny by the gods of Asgard. She could not simply stand aside and allow HYDRA to be victorious – she could _not_ let her fear and her conscience stop her from completing that destiny. She remembered the Red Skull's lilting words – the gods of Asgard did not hand out their gifts to just anyone. She had been given a purpose; she would fulfill it, or her gifts would be relinquished.

Without that opposing power – HYDRA would be unstoppable.

She had no other choice. She had to flee before Johann returned; or else, she would be under the Red Skull's thumb until he achieved his goals.

And by that time it would be too late.

XXX

She sifted through her uncle's journals, his large desk littered with the contents of every drawer and shelf. Any hope of an escape was futile if she did not have the monetary means to procure a passage out of Germany. Money for a train-ticket, perhaps air fare, food and information. Johann was a product of the depression – before his lavish position in the Gestapo, he had only meager funds; he and Angelica had worked two or three menial positions at a time to survive. Storing one's savings in a bank was entirely out of the question; no bank teller could be trusted with his livelihood. She reasoned that the bulk of his monetary funds had been transferred across a network of HYDRA bases – there were at least six in Germany alone.

When he had worked for the Gestapo, the Führer had showered him with expensive commodities – most likely, Johann had demanded them. Trivial as material goods often were to him, it would be fitting of him to desire only the most lavish of salaries for his superior service. She recalled her mother angrily sputtering over Johann's bolstered greed; as the head of espionage, he destroyed whole villages in Poland, ransacking them of their wealth and taking it for himself as spoils of war. He had amassed a vast fortune and the decorations of a seasoned officer all before his twenty-fifth birthday. Never the less, he was a creature of habit.

He could afford security details beyond measure but he still took to hiding small sums of money in odd little crevices around the sprawling home. Her fingers stroked the soft leather cover of a book that seemed very out of place among vast encyclopedias of Norse myth and military strategy.

A bible. Small and weathered, between its crumpled and yellowed pages lay several bills – each worth one hundred Reichsmarks. She let a small smile crinkle the corners of her lips, before glancing up at the soldier posted outside of the study. He stood straight-backed, facing the corridor as he had been since she had entered.

She scowled before looking back down at the little book in her hands, a mixture of anger and mournful despair welling up from the pit of her stomach. A part of her twisted and writhed with guilt and sorrow, hesitant and afraid to betray Johann. She had often attempted to cleanse her mind of the guilt that plagued it, trying and trying to convince herself that what she was doing was necessary and right. Yet…

Sullenly, she let her eyes travel across the large study, the shelves lined with dusty but weathered books, the walls adorned with tapestries and intricate maps painted upon animal hides. On one wall, a small oil painting depicted a young, scrawny girl in a blue satin dress, a book held open in her hands, a small smile playing at her lips. But her eyes were glassy with fatigue and her cheeks, painted rosy, had been more of a greyish hue. The portrait had been painted when she had just turned eleven. That year had been a hellish one, her frail body wracked by severe bouts of whooping cough, her pale skin covered in the tiny red bumps of Measles. And through every illness that plagued her, Johann had been there, halting his work for weeks at a time to care for her, hiring the most esteemed doctors in the country to examine her. A shiver ran up her spine as the Red Skull's voice once again rang true in her ears.

"_When you were but eleven years old, Johann came to me, requesting my advice. You were on the cusp of death_…"

Johann had sought to save her from the slow death she might have had to endure. A vial filled with some experimental formula had saved her life – a vial filled with something no normal doctor possessed. Would a villain truly go to such measures to save one child? Would a villain go to such measures to save _anyone_?

She glanced back up at the soldier posted at the door. Every time she left a room, a guard silently followed her, taking up his post at whatever door she entered. A kindhearted benefactor would not have her under house-arrest, controlling and watching her every movement, their heavy rifles slung across their chests, sending a blatant message: they would not kill her, but they would wound her if it was necessary. And no matter how fervently Johann assured her that the soldiers were in place to protect her, not harm her, the truth was obvious. She was a tool – a weapon. HYDRA _needed_ her to succeed – without her, they only had their weapons and those who manned them could still be killed.

A villain _would_ go to such extreme measures to preserve a pivotal asset.

She felt hot tears prick her eyes and she shook her head vigorously, blinking hard. Johann no longer viewed her as his niece, the orphaned girl he had taken in, cared for. She was a business arrangement, and he was no more connected to her than to a contract paper, signed with his name.

The deal was sealed; he'd signed her over, no strings attached. She was the Red Skull's plaything now. She imagined the wicked smirk that would grace his lips as he ordered her to kill whoever stood in his way. He would enjoy her like a fine Schnapps – savor her until every last drop had been spent and she was no more than a withered carcass.

She glanced up again, ensuring that the guard was still facing away from her before she tucked the bills away in a pocket. She flipped through the yellowed pages, sighing heavily – she feigned fatigue, her body feeling as if it had not slept in months, but her heart ached just as her limbs did. She could pretend to be bored, to be nonplussed at her entire predicament, but deep within, she knew that she was only masking the sorrow and lonesomeness and fear that welled within her like a spring.

At the sound of her decidedly loud exhalation, the soldier turned on his heel in a single polished maneuver, his masked face staring her down. A loud click cut through the silence of the study as he cocked his rifle. Mina looked up at him, not bothering to stifle a roll of her eyes.

"What?" she spat, taking care to make her tone haughty and flippant. If Johann was not the type to award gold stars for good behavior, she doubted his beloved master would be. "Are you going to shoot me for reading the good book?" She held up the bible with a flourish. From the looks of the brittle pages and the crumpled bills within them, she had little to fear if the guard decided to tattle on her. The bills were Reichsmarks, thankfully still valid, but Johann hadn't attended a church service in at least three years. If he couldn't be bothered to worship in the lord's house, he certainly wouldn't take the time out of his hectic agenda to study up on scripture. The bills and their location were most likely long forgotten.

The soldier did not move a muscle; his reply was an almost inhuman silence. She scowled bitterly.

"You should try it sometime." She grumbled. "The wonders a little faith can do."

The soldier remained silent. Mina opened her mouth to offer a retort, but instead sighed and abandoned the effort. The soldiers never answered her questions and never acknowledged her spoken musings. They did not even speak to each other – they communicated in silent nods and gestures.

It was ridiculous. Did they think that she would derive some confidential information from a man asking his fellow comrade for a cigarette?

"You can turn back around, if you'd like." She finally said, eyeing the soldier levelly. "I promise I'll alert you if I attempt to harm myself."

The soldier was motionless. She shrugged. "Fine. Suit yourself."

She refocused her gaze on the bible in her hands, the book open to a page in the book of Proverbs, where the bills had once been tucked away.

Her stomach lurched as her eyes moved down the page.

"_Of what use is money in the hand of a fool, since he has no desire to get wisdom_?"

She swallowed hard, her fingers tracing the tiny letters.

"Why do I get the feeling that I'm the fool?" she whispered, this time, not even eliciting a movement from the soldier.

It was as if the Red Skull was laughing at her from afar, a harbinger of the certain failure to come.

She had no wisdom – no knowledge of who her captors were, and only limited knowledge of the power they possessed. They may not kill her, but they could torture her – cause her endless suffering and pain.

And yet, there she was, planning an escape that would no doubt be fruitless.

She closed the book with a loud thud, her throat tight and her eyes burning.

It was as if he knew her every move – a part of her conscience, her working mind.

It was as if he had planned it all, lusting for her to attempt it – to attempt to escape his grasp.

If nothing else than to cackle in the face of her courage.

XXX

The American Barracks

London, England – 1943

2030 Hours

Colonel Chester Phillips lifted his flask to his lips, closing his eyes in anticipation of the warm burn of Kentucky Bourbon.

And, to his most decided chagrin, there was none to be had. He tipped the flask upside down, hoping for at least the barest trickle of whiskey – not a drop. He muttered a fairly impressive string of expletives.

"Sir,"

Captain Steven Rogers' chipper tone, ever optimistic, cut through the hazy fog of the colonel's mind.

"Rogers," Phillips drawled in a slightly drunken yet clearly vexed tone, "Tell me again why I'm wasting a twenty man recon team on some Nazi girl-scout?"

Rogers bristled at his words, and Phillips offered him a cold grin.

"With all due respect, sir, this girl is not some nameless German – she's clearly being used by HYDRA – for god knows what. I don't know how low Schmidt is willing to stoop – I'd rather not think about it."

"And with all due respect, Rogers, your lack of thought has had a tendency to get you _and_ some of my best men mixed up with the wrong bunch of Nazis. Now listen up, Rogers. I am _not _about to send the whole of my battalion to weed out some HYDRA whore – "

"Sir!"

"I said listen up, Rogers." Phillips barked, rising from his chair. With the plodding step of a lion he stalked towards the good captain. "Now, you have _no idea_ who this girl is. For all you know, she's Schmidt's plaything – or she could be a well-informed member of HYDRA."

Rogers eyed the colonel with a cold anger. "Then if you don't think she deserves to be rescued, wouldn't she make a fine prisoner?"

Phillips returned his stare with one of solid stubbornness. "A fine prisoner, indeed. If we can catch her. But if we can't, Rogers, the consequences for both of us will be more than slightly detrimental to our initiatives. For one thing, HYDRA's liable to completely shut down and fall off the map if we do happen to screw up and not catch this kid. And if that happens, you and I are out of a job and the U.S. of A is under a new and improved dictatorship when Schmidt casually walks in a month or so from now. And, if she turns out to be a Nazi girl-scout that just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, my boss is going to have my ass under a bus. And _I_ will have _your_ ass under a bus for wasting my time and resources on some civilian caught in the crossfire."

"But sir, if she _is_ some civilian caught in the crossfire, don't you think saving her is the right thing to do?"

With a sudden jolt, Phillips slammed his fist down onto his desk, the action giving off a metallic clang.

"Goddamn it, of course it's the right thing to do, Rogers! It's the right thing to do to save the hundreds of thousands of innocent Jews that die each day in Nazi gas chambers. But guess what, we aren't savin' them, are we? We don't just send in men by the truckload and skewer the Gestapo's ugly asses, do we? No, we sure as hell don't. You know why, Rogers? Because we don't have the time, the resources, the money, the men, the weapons. As the United States Armed Forces, we aren't pinpointin' every helpless little child in every occupied nation. We are looking at the _goddamned big picture_. We cannot afford to waste time searching out and rescuing every innocent that's caught in this war. That's the whole definition of _war_, Rogers! It's hell. People die. And _you_, the goddamned Star-Spangled-Man, _cannot_ save every innocent person. You can't, Captain, plain and simple. Believe me, if I could, I would. But I can't. And neither can you. It's time you start accepting that."

With a huff, Phillips sat back down in his chair, taking a fruitless swig of his flask. He scowled bitterly – a look that could have ten corporals dead on the floor, blood pouring from their wide eyes. He lit up a cigarette, eyes pointed away from the young Captain's unforgiving grimace.

"Sir, I know what you're thinking. I know you think that this girl is just some nameless nobody – but sir, I swear – I saw what she did in that factory. I saw the power radiating from her like – like water. It had to have been the tesseract – Schmidt can vaporize men in seconds; to have that power in a human being – he'd be unstoppable."

Phillips sighed heavily, staring down at the stack of paperwork on his desk. "If he'd be unstoppable, why didn't he figure out how to channel the power into himself instead of some kid?"

"No idea, sir. But Colonel – I understand your doubts about this girl but – I just – I can just feel it, sir. That girl saved my life – we both would've been killed by HYDRA's flamethrowers and she just threw up a blaze of light like some sort of force-field – not even a snap of the fingers. I looked into her eyes –there was fear there, indescribable fear. She told me she was Skull's prisoner, sir. I mean – what would HYDRA do with power like that? To vaporize a whole factory's worth of men in seconds – the power was pouring off of her like sheets of rain."

"If she's that powerful than maybe she could save herself."

Rogers shook his head. "No sir, Schmidt's no fool. Power like that – he'd never let her out of his sight. He's learned his lesson since the Howlers' came in, sir. He's getting more discreet with each move. He's planning something – the only reason I can come up with as to why this girl's disappeared off of the map is because Schmidt knows we're on to him."

Phillips snorted. "Then Schmidt must not be as good as we think – we've got next to nothing on this kid." He shook his head. "I should have expected it – the minute we put out a radio transmission, HYDRA's first move would be to clam up. I'm still not even sure if we should be wasting our time anymore – I have no doubt that HYDRA would jump at the chance to use a super-power like that of what you've just described. But at the same time, we'll have a whole mess on our hands if this girl turns out to be a well-informed HYDRA member with no _desire_ to be rescued. For all we know, she's eating off a silver platter in a nice chalet in the Alps. We don't even know how old she is – she could be Schmidt's _lady-friend_… or something disgustin' like that."

"She didn't look older than sixteen, sir. But I suppose she could be older… she just – she just looked like a child – a deer in head-lights. Besides," he laughed quietly to himself, "I don't think Schmidt bothers all too much with women."

"Even someone as self-worshipping as Schmidt has time to dabble in some form of debauchery, Captain. He may not believe it, but he is _human_. And as it is, it's been a hard slog of a war. We all need a few indulgences here and there."

As he finished, a young corporal stuck his head into the doorway.

"Sir, we've got information on the whereabouts of the subject _Athena_,"

Rogers cast the colonel a curious glance. Philips waved a hand at him dismissively, rising from his chair. "I'll explain it on the way."

As he started out of the room, Rogers close at his heel, he paused a moment.

"What color hair did this girl have?"

The Captain lifted a brow. "Light brown. Sir?"

Phillips shook his head, dismissing the subject. "She isn't a – _mistress_ of Schmidt's then. I figure he's got a thing for redheads."

"What makes you say that?"

"Just a hunch."

Colonel Phillips started at a brisk pace into the narrow stone corridor, Rogers, right behind him, the cramped space not permitting his broad shoulders next to Phillips'.

"You're calling her Athena, sir?"

"Well, we needed a better code-name than 'that Nazi girl'." He offered the captain a grim smile. "Schmidt has a thing for Norse mythology. And judging from your descriptions of what she can do, this girl's the next closest thing to being a god. Suffice to say, we thought it would be rather clever to give her a mythological name, directly contrasting to Schmidt's preferences. I like to think it would get his goat."

Rogers shrugged. "Sounds good to me."

They proceeded in silence as the young corporal led them into an opening alcove, the brick walls curving outward and broadening the room. A hub of radios and machinery dominated every inch of the room, the steady and rhythmic click-clacking of Morse coders filling the sound void. Far above them, the sound of a routine air-raid alarm test echoed faintly.

They were led to a large, sprawling map – the brightly colored canvas stretching along the back wall of the alcove.

"Sir," the corporal sought the colonel's gaze, silently asking permission to begin. Phillips offered him a single nod.

"We've managed to narrow down a specific location along the outskirts of Berlin – a remote residential community where Schmidt's city residence is located. We gleaned as much information as we could out of a Gestapo leak –"

"Gestapo?"

"We shot him after the fact, sir."

Phillips nodded tentatively. "Alright. That's better."

"We've pin-pointed it to a single street – _Dietrichstraße_ – it's lined with higher-up's mansions. We've had five recon men scouting out the surroundings. From the most recent reports, the outside of the house is crawling with civilian soldiers – rounding the plot continuously. One of our boys got in close enough to pick out a HYDRA insignia. It absolutely has to be where Schmidt's keeping her."

"Or it could be a trap." Phillips stated bluntly.

Rogers glanced over at him. "Sir," his tone was quietly admonishing. "This is our best shot."

Phillips sighed and shook his head. "Schmidt isn't that stupid. It's only been three months and we've picked them out that fast? If this girl's as powerful as you say, you'd think he'd go to greater lengths to hide her."

Rogers nodded. "But maybe he doesn't have to."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, quite simply, if she can conjure up the power that I witnessed at that factory, there would be no need for Schmidt to worry about her safety. She can easily defend herself – and on top of that, the place is supposedly crawling with HYDRA personnel. I don't think he's getting lazy with his security – I think it's more of a matter of he's got bigger fish to fry."

"Alright, that makes sense. So we have a location – but I think that, for the moment, it would be in our best interest to bide our time. As powerful as she is, I don't want to risk losing her to HYDRA. I trust you and the Howlers to hold Schmidt at bay, but if he pulls this girl back into the equation when we're not looking, we won't stand a chance. But at the same time – she could be an informant. If we jump to conclusions and go in now, she could easily have contacts – hell, Schmidt could be expecting her to blow us to pieces if we get our hands on her. Exactly why I think this whole thing could also be a trap. So, I say we let things sit for a while more – I want the place observed day and night. If we witness her or any other HYDRA personnel, we watch 'em and tail em' if they leave. Let's see how she behaves. I'm not averse to taking a prisoner if it means helping out our cause – but I want to make sure that our asses are covered when we do."

He glanced at Rogers. The young captain shrugged.

"Sounds good to me."

Phillips nodded to the corporal. "I want a recon team on that place and the surrounding streets 24/7. Get a move on it, stat."

"Yes, sir."

Phillips turned to head for his office, his heart skipping at the idea of a perspective leg-up on HYDRA.

"You sure he's got a thing for red-heads, sir?"

Rogers met him with a mischievous grin. Phillips rolled his eyes.

"Count on it, Rogers. I've observed it firsthand."

"I didn't think you'd dealt with Schmidt before."

"Not personally – it was a recon mission back in the twenties' – I was just an organizer, not actually out on the field. Hell, I didn't even know his name. And he wasn't exactly the whack job he is today."

"Were you a red-head sir, before you went gray?"

"I oughta beat the shit out of you, boy."

Rogers laughed out loud. "Yes, sir." He offered a staunch salute.

XXX

Berlin, Germany

1943

She stared through the diamond panes of her window, the dusky evening light casting distorted shadows across the floor. She'd sat there for at least a half an hour now, yet her breaths continued to quicken and her heartbeat labored, attempting to keep time with her fluttering nerves. She held her leather satchel close to her heart, the meager weight of the _Reichsmarks_ suddenly heavy as stones. She closed her eyes, muttering a short prayer. She cleared her throat and with a steady tone, she summoned the soldier standing guard outside the room.

The young man's darkened figure was a shadow across the doorframe – not a sound followed as he was engulfed in a scorch of blue flame.

Not even the slightest tinge of ash marred the wooden floor. She eyed the area where the soldier had stood briefly, her throat tight. For a moment, she wondered if she were any better than the Red Skull then, killing to find escape – refuge. She shook her head, ridding it of the thought. There was no other way – she had to get out. There was no time for kindness or consideration anymore – not for these men. Johann and the Red Skull could chase her forever if they wanted, but she would continue to run no matter the cost.

This night would begin a long string of attempted escapes – of dismal failures – of small successes. She knew she would be captured this time – she could feel it within her bones. But if anything, it would be a small symbol of her rebellion – her determination to _never_ abide to the Red Skull.

To think of him rage over her _insolence_ towards HYDRA. For the time-being, that was victory enough.

XXX

HYDRA Base

The Alps – 1943

"How many are dead?"

He stood facing the broad panes of the panoramic window, his slender fingers lightly gripping the stem of a glass, half-filled with Schnapps. His tone was placidly cold.

"Seven, sir, out of the twenty."

The lilting strains of a violin solo pierced the dead silence of the laboratory, the distinctly arabesque melody of Rimsky-Korsakov's _Scheherazade _filling the empty void with its majesty.

He scoffed. "How charming. So eager for blood, so eager for death – yet she fiercely proclaims that she loathes the sight of evil or cunning. So angelic as the eyes take in her _innocence_ – the grip of the fist so desperate to _crush it_."

The glass shattered within his gloved hand, shards of ornate crystal spiraling through the air.

The Red Skull continued on, nonplussed, the pinnacle of sophisticated nonchalance, practiced at the art of maintaining one's composure.

"You are dismissed, Corporal. Notify Dr. Zola that he is to report to me immediately."

The clack of jackboots connecting in a staunch salute sounded behind him. "_Jawohl, mein Herr_."

"And Corporal,"

"Herr Schmidt,"

"Whipping would be too cruel – it would scar her lovely flesh. Have her run some – sixteen kilometers or so, with a rifle held upright – four and a half kilograms in weight. Keep her under close observation, of course – and have her do so on a particularly ghastly day. Torrential downpours, such would be perfectly suited to our means. If she is so eager to run, then let her. Let us see if she will comply to us then."

"_Jawohl_, _mein Herr_."

Patiently, he waited as the hollow steps of the soldier faded away to silence, the heavy doors of the laboratory clicking shut behind him.

He cast a cursory glance at the pool of clear liquid spreading across the metal tiles, giving off a crystalline sheen against the shards of shattered glass. He imagined the porcelain complexion of his niece's face, her washed-out grey eyes, somber and sorrowful.

_Shattered_ like the face of a china doll, slick with the spilt liquor, he envisioned it reflecting in the pieces of broken crystal.

Her beautiful face, _broken_, _smashed_, a fine powder, not but dust.

Rage blurred his vision, a crimson haze of bloodlust and animosity.

With a deep inhalation, he slowed his accelerating heartbeat, his chest heaving at the effort. He closed his eyes, the lids like lead.

His rage had largely subsided some hours ago, after the first notification of Wilhelmina's attempted escape had been delivered to him. He vowed to remain collected before his men – and even himself.

In truth, he was disgusted – not with his niece's actions, but by his own reaction to them.

He had been so blinded with rage – a deep animosity had surged through his veins like an infection, every fiber of his being _lusting_ for bloodshed and chaos. He could almost _feel_ her fragile frame _splintering, shattering_ in his iron grip, her limbs snapping like twigs under his thumb. The anger he had experienced – it was more real and more tantalizing than he any emotion he'd ever felt – for a moment he longed to…

Whip her until she bled, until her skin was ripped and torn. To see the scabs and scars forever writhing up her spine.

Beat her until every rib had snapped in two, until her lungs collapsed, until she lay contorted on the ground, bleeding, weeping.

To strike her over and over and over and _over and over and over again_.

He had fallen to his knees, tears streaming down his crimson cheekbones, his broad frame quaking and convulsing like a small child's. A terror so profound had worked its way to his core – his conscience laughed at him, mocked him – _scorned_ him.

_You are weak! You useless wretch – you pity them! All of them! Every single damned soul that ever denied you victory – that ever denied you brilliance and perfection! You have the strength to crush them under your heel, to reduce them to ash – and yet you cannot. You could not _kill_ them. What makes you think you can _kill _her? She is no different from the rest of them – she will ruin you!_

He couldn't remember how long he had knelt there, how long he had mentally berated himself – how long he had thought of every soul that had wronged him. It was like watching a film reel – his entire life's events playing out before him, vivid and colorized – hideous.

Tears had cascaded across his skin, hot and salty.

He could never hurt her. He _loved _her, like his own child – she was the only thing he had left in the world.

And yet, every single day, she was a constant, painful reminder of his greatest weakness.

One that had plagued him since he was a child, and had rewarded him with failure after failure after failure.

XXX

_Regensburg, Germany – 1908_

_Christmas Day_

_Today was his fifth birthday. The day the Christ child had been born, so his sister told him. He'd never paid very much attention to the bible. He'd never been to a church, though his sister had been baptized. The only god his father worshipped was liquor and the Christ child was the poker chip._

_And according to Hermann Schmidt, his son was the Devil incarnate. He had been the reason his mother had died. Her death had been exchanged for his life. He was a murderer – a demon. And Hermann Schmidt made good on reminding his son daily of the great sin he had committed on the day of his birth. _

_He rose early, leaving Johann and his sister alone in the rickety house. He worked in a factory, breathing in chemical fumes, listlessly toiling at a work bench, his fingers stained with tobacco as he hand-rolled his cigarettes. His wages were meager, and the farthest they traveled was to a poker table in a musty bar, never to be seen again. His children starved, yet he didn't care._

_He would arrive home often on a Saturday or Sunday, having slept on the streets, kicked out of bars in a drunken stupor in the wee hours of the morning. Johann lay in his bed shivering, rigid with fear. Saturday was what his father liked to refer to as "_Tag des Gerichts_". Judgment Day. Johann mumbled to himself meekly, desperately wondering if there really was a god, if there was some blessed deity that could save him from the suffering that awaited him. Desperately he wondered if God would intervene._

_He never did._

_Hermann would drag him from his bed, laughing, his breath rancid with liquor. He would beat him – punch him, kick him, whip him until he bled. _

_He laughed at his son's anguished cries, the sobs that racked his frame. _

_But as Johann's weeping bubbled up into an unstoppable fit of hysteria, Hermann grew enraged._

_ "Does the Devil cry so easily, you little bastard? What a disgusting excuse of a man, you are!" He would sneer, the grin on his face sending chills through Johann's fragile body. "You are weak! You insolent snip – you deserved to die! How humiliated the Devil must be, that he gave you life – for surely Christ did not. No, no, Christ gives life to warriors, to real men. Not insignificant little girls – we should have your sister sew you a dress – how pretty you'd be, playing with your little dolls, feeding the little birds!" _

_But today, today would be the worst. He could feel it in his heart._

_Hermann Schmidt apparently had had the good heart to buy Christmas gifts for his children._

_Johann smiled delightedly, his heart skipping a beat as hope flooded through him. He watched as his father presented his sister a little china doll, dressed in the traditional Bavarian _Dirndlgewand.

_Angelika was thrilled, hugging her new toy tightly to her chest. Hermann smiled, but there was something in the expression that made Johann flinch. A coldness, a fury, masked with a saccharine sweetness. He beckoned his son to him, putting his arm around Johann's frail shoulders._

_ "My son, Weinachtsmann has brought you a gift, a nice little present for your birthday. A present fitting for the Christ child." He chuckled._

_Wool socks, of olive green and brown yarn. _

_Johann received them silently, his smile melting into a dejected frown. He looked up at his father._

_ "Thank you, Papa. But… but… did Weinachtsmann bring me… something else? Angelika got a nice dolly… do you think maybe Weinachtsmann brought me a toy, too?"_

_ "Why, my son, do you not like your present?"_

_Johann nodded vigorously. "Oh yes, yes I do like my present, Papa! Very much! But I… I had just… I thought maybe Weinachtsmann had brought me toy soldiers, like the ones in the shop windows…"_

_At this, Hermann Schmidt had flown into a rage. _

_Johann was kicked, punched, whipped, and thrown out into the snow, his bloody and blackened face sinking into the cold white powder, his tears freezing to his cheeks._

_And his father had laughed at him, cackled hysterically as his son wept into the snow, trying again and again to rise from the snow, only to have Hermann's boot kick him back down. _

_ "Some man you are! You little rat – I hope you freeze to death!"_

_Shortly after, Hermann Schmidt, in a state of drunken delirium, shot himself._

XXX

_Berlin, Germany – 1926_

_Exactly one year after the formation of the German Schutztaffel_

_ "Johann, you must not allow Zemo to get to you – his entire goal is to unravel your confidence. You must not let him succeed."_

_ "How can he _not_ succeed? He speaks nothing but the truth about me." He answered bitterly._

_Behind him, the Baron Wolfgang von Strucker gave the practiced sigh of the long suffering. With a flourish, he adjusted his monocle, his free gloved hand running across the bald flesh of his head._

_ "Who you are or where you come from do not matter in this game, Johann, at least not to you. I wish you would let me worry about your origin. It is proving to be a relentless distraction to you, and it will not win you any favors as we progress."_

_Johann scowled at his mentor bitterly, gritting his teeth. "My _origin _has everything to do with this. Wolfgang Hofstadter has trained for this moment his entire life – I, on the other hand, had neither the time nor the money to waste on such luxuries. I can hardly pick up a sword, much less wield one."_

_ "You could hardly pick up a sword several months ago – look at you now."_

_ "I've graduated to picking up a sabre with one hand instead of two? How utterly exciting! Just wait – tomorrow I'll be engaging in duals with Odin and Thor!"_

_Strucker rolled his eyes, the scar along his cheek puckering with the movement. "So you aren't a gifted swordsman – you _are_ a gifted marksman and a strategist – you possess the culture and intellect of someone born into nobility. And, less fortunately, the arrogance."_

_ "And here I'd always thought that that was my most charming feature."_

_ "Do not play the martyr, Johann." Strucker bristled at his student's inherent smugness. "You were chosen for a reason. Herr Hitler desires only the finest soldiers for his regime when the office of chancellor is in his grasp. _You_ struck him as the epitome of that soldier. You possess the passive cruelty, the detached demeanor, the vast intelligence of someone capable of seamlessly killing and defeating. Do not let your past best you in this competition. Herr Hitler wishes to create militaristic specimens from the most extreme sectors of the population – the aristocracy and the –"_

_ "Scum of humanity? The common street urchin? The darling little bellhop, waiting on the socialites of the future, hand and foot? Yes of course, a fine soldier he makes."_

_ "Your attitude towards those socialites is what has fueled Herr Hitler's great aspirations for you. Wolfgang Hofstadter may possess brawn, but you possess _brains_. And I promise you, it is much more beneficial to have a brain on the frontlines than to have a senseless bulk of muscle."_

_ "I would not call Hofstadter senseless, Herr Baron. He has played me from the very beginning."_

_ "You have let him play you. You have let him and Zemo gain control of your emotions – you let them use your past against you. You mustn't let your anger cloud your judgement, Johann. I promise you, your emotional capacity can be a very useful tool, once you finesse your utilization of it. Your primary focus is to _kill_ Wolfgang Hofstadter. Then – then you will have proved to Herr Hitler, to Baron Zemo, and to the entirety of the Nazi party that a first-class soldier can be created from even the lowest depths of society – "_

_ "But I cannot kill him!" Johann snapped, his fists clenched and shaking with rage. "I have had chance after chance to kill him and yet I do not! How can I prove to Herr Hitler that _I _am the finest specimen of a soldier he can create, when I epitomize everything he fights against? His struggle against '_lies, stupidity, and cowardice'_! _I _am a _coward_! I have suffered so many failures and rejections – I have been forced to commit crimes and deeds so humiliating and deprecating – I have stooped so low simply for a crust of bread, a single coin – all to survive in a life not worth living! And yet, when I am poised over his body, when I can laugh in his arrogant face, when I can put a bullet in his head, when I can make him suffer as I once did, _I cannot_!"_

_He was on his knees now, trembling with a rage that blurred his vision, that beckoned tears to well in his eyes._

_Strucker heaved yet another sigh, not one of annoyance but, sadness and pity. _

_ "I am sorry, Johann. The hand that you were dealt has been a losing one, but this is your chance to put things right again, to be on the winning side. Zemo only wishes to instigate you, to get the best of you – he has trained his own student to do the same. It is not fair, but there are no defined rules to this competition. But you have something, Johann, that Wolfgang Hofstadter or even Zemo will never possess. Both of them – they have been spoon-fed their entire lives, living in the lap of luxury. You have experienced hardships that only criminals and lowlifes deserve. But your anger, your emotion – you are not a coward, Johann. Cowardice is not the reason why you cannot kill Wolfgang Hofstadter. You pity him; you pity his existence, his narrow-mindedness, his lack of compassion. You are full of compassion, of emotion – and that is not weakness. That is power. Your anger will be your greatest weapon – your emotional capacity will allow you to twist and mutilate the emotions of others. And that – that will create the ultimate suffering, the ultimate torture for any of Herr Hitler's victims. Your empathy is your greatest weapon, Johann. It is not something to be ashamed of."_

_Johann stood, eyeing his mentor coldly. "Not something to be ashamed of? Perhaps my father told me the truth all those years ago. What kind of man am I, to flinch at even the slightest thought of danger? What kind of soldier would I make, when I cannot even shoot some self-centered son of a bourgeoisie bitch? No, Strucker. My so-called 'empathy' will lore over me like the plague, no matter how or where I progress in Hitler's society, when it is his. It's quite laughable, really. I dream of killing myself, and yet I fear I could not even do that."_

XXX

HYDRA Base – the Alps

1943

It was all so vivid – so vibrant – so sorrowful. Reminders of his failures, beginning from the day he was born. His entire life – his entire _existence_ – had been a failure, and his father and every human being to come upon him had reminded him of that.

_This_ – his vision, his life's work – _this_ would not fail because of some wretched, rebellious girl. He had spent so many years tirelessly toiling and laboring to work his way into Hitler's precious Reich – months and months spent training with weapons and tactics he had only read of and dreamt of in books. He remembered it as if it had been mere days before – the grueling fight he had endure to earn his place as one of the most powerful men in Germany – second _only_ to the Führer.

He had been a bell-hop at some posh Berlin hotel – far from his birthplace in Regensburg. He'd done everything in his power to forget the place. He had been just nineteen years old when Adolf Hitler had recruited him to his cause – the charismatic leader of the Nazi party had a vision no less grand than his own, and Johann had hungrily drank in the man's attention.

He had served as Hitler's personal apprentice for two years before being assigned to the Baron Wolfgang von Strucker – an esteemed fencing expert and one of the most brilliant men in the party. Strucker was tasked with training Johann in the art of warfare, in order for him to successfully participate in Hitler's latest experiment.

It was all a game, really – one that, in theory, he should never have won. Hitler desired only the finest and most superior soldiers for his regime – soldiers that could be created from the aristocracy _and_ the lowest of classes. Polar opposites, the most extreme castes of society.

_He_ was the street urchin, the orphan, the son of a drunkard.

Wolfgang Hofstadter was the son of a wealthy party-member, and a member of an old, German noble family. He had been trained by the Baron Heinrich Zemo since he was but twelve years old, and he possessed a formal education from one of Germany's finest academies.

Yet, his opponent's obvious advantages no longer served as the reason for Johann's profound hatred for him.

Wolfgang Hofstadter had married Angelika Schmidt, and shortly before his untimely death, fathered her child.

It had taken years to push Wolfgang's image from his mind when he looked at his niece, his dear Mina. To look at her was to be reminded of his failures.

All those years ago, he had been directed to fight Wolfgang Hofstadter to the death – that was the only way to prove to Adolf Hitler that a soldier could be made from the filth of society. He had been taunted and beaten and bloodied by Hofstadter and Zemo, he had suffered the deepest physical and emotional abuse. So many times in training, the other boy, three years his senior, had stood over him, a blade driving into his chest, twisting into the flesh, drawing blood. At first, the boy's brawn had given him feeble hope – strength could easily be outwitted by smarts, and from the boy's haughty, self-centered demeanor, he hoped that he would lack his superior intelligence.

He had not been entirely wrong – the boy was by no means stupid, but he did not possess the intellectual cunning that Johann did. He only knew of one way to behave – smug and snobby – the boy was _certain_ his bell-hop adversary would lose. To this end, Johan was able to use his confidence against him, but more often than not, he remained on the losing side.

Yet, when he finally had had the chance – when he stood over that bastard's body, the older boy paled to a ghostly shade of grey, his breathing labored, tears of fear and despair welling in his eyes – he could not kill him. But why? He hated him – loathed him with every fiber of his being. And yet the blatant fear of the boy – he had _begged_ him to kill him, to free him from the humiliation, the wrath of his mentor, for _failing_.

He remembered his own words clear as day, ringing in his ears.

"_You do not deserve to die_. _Not like this._"

And in retrospect, he didn't. No one deserved to die for something as desperate, inefficient, and plainly _stupid_ as that. To have a fight-to-the-death competition simply for the title of "soldier" was absolutely ridiculous to him now, but then, it had been his only chance.

Despite his failing to kill his opponent, and demonstrate to Herr Hitler that he was, indeed, the superior soldier, he was named second-in-command to the leader of the NSDAP. A stroke of luck, perhaps, for Hitler would create a reputation for bloodlust. Yet, he _enjoyed_ Johann's empathetic abilities – his knack for twisting and manipulating his opponents. Johann succeeded in humiliating Wolfgang – his explanation for the lack of "death" in the competition was the other boy's cowardice and utter fear.

He would knock Wolfgang Hofstadter down so far that the two would hardly ever meet in their separate careers.

Yet, the man would soon come to represent nearly every failure and humiliation that Johann would ever suffer.

His dear sister would be taken away from him, whisked away into the wealthy Hofstadter's arms, offering a life far more comfortable than the one she lived then.

That was only the beginning of his hatred, though.

Johann buried himself in his work, avenging his inability to kill his opponent then – as the head of espionage and sabotage, he slaughtered thousands, relishing the blood, reveling in the glories of war and death. He rose ever higher in the ranks, proving to the Führer that _he_ was indeed superior, capable of killing and torturing without a thought, without a single drop of emotion or compassion. He receded deeper and deeper into the blackened crevices of his heart, avenging the failures and rejections he had suffered.

On the wings of his bloodlust and genius, HYDRA was born – factories and bases were built – an army of Hitler's finest scientists and soldiers, hand-selected by Johann's keen eye. Via his esteemed post in the Reich, he gained respect and wealth and was revered by even the laymen. The world would know his name.

It was the first time in his entire life that he had ever experienced pure, unadulterated success – only one man in the entire world stood in his way, yet even _that_ slight obstacle did little to deter him.

He held each of his followers to a death oath – they swore unwavering loyalty to him and _only_ to him. They did not serve the illustrious Führer – they served _him_ and him alone.

Soon, the entirety of the Reich _and_ the world would be under his thumb.

His dramatic increase in power with the creation of HYDRA pitted many against him – most especially, a certain Baron Heinrich Zemo, his humbled student close at his heels.

Zemo had been gravely humiliated after Johann's success under the Führer and Strucker's mentorship. His own student had been reduced to a Major in the SS (rather than having the illustrious title of _Obergruppenführer_ bestowed upon him), confined to a desk-job, swimming in paperwork. Zemo's visions of grandiose glory, on the wings of his pupil, were dashed. He was now seen as little more than a raving lunatic scientist, spouting off dramatic plans that were doomed to fail, delving into chemicals and experiments that would only result in disaster.

Zemo would craftily exploit Johann's ambitions, playing into Hitler's extreme paranoia that _anyone_ could be plotting his deposition from power.

Hitler took the bait, as could only be expected.

Johann was dishonorably discharged from his position as the head of espionage and sabotage – for plotting treason against the Führer, developing a power base and an army fit for a coup. He was publicly stripped of his rank and decorations, a room of high-ranking officers staring him down with cold, greedy eyes, like vultures – eager to pick at the remains of his post.

He would be remanded to his base in the Alps, sentenced to piece together weapons for the Reich for the rest of his days. According to his rivals, his many enemies in the SS and the Gestapo, HYDRA was merely a factory filled with tinkering, puttering laboratory technicians and _he _was their mad master, fallen from grace, an empty shell of what was once a glorious career.

_Reward? Call it what it is: Exile_.

His words rang like a haunting bell-toll in his ears, looming over his shoulder at every turn.

To the Reich and every damned son of a bitch within it, he was the laughingstock, the failure, the drunk's son that had considered himself worthy of the Führer's attention.

And – to add even further insult to injury – they replaced him.

His beloved post in the SS and all of the government frills that came with it – they would all be lavished upon the new _Obergruppenführer_, a certain Wolfgang Hofstadter, suggested and highly advocated by the _illustrious_ Baron Zemo.

The final blow to his string of blood-stained failures, his endless grief and rage, his ever-growing stack of rejection letters, the envelope sealed with a crimson swastika, notifying him of his discharge.

A whole career, painstakingly pieced together, struggled for, tirelessly devoted to.

It was all gone.

Blinking rapidly, Johann shook himself from his daze, breathing heavily. He shook his head, clearing his mind, his vision – he leaned against his desk, his long fingers splayed across the cool metal surface.

_This_. This was his chance – his final opportunity for redemption, for glory, for victory. The gods had favored him – they had given him the power of Odin, unleashed from the innocent hands of a young girl. No one would suspect it – _no_ _one_ would know how to stop him, not even the Americans and their precious _Star-Spangled man_.

No one would stand in his way, not this time. Not even an insolent little snip of a girl.

He loved his niece dearly – he had worked tirelessly to secure her health, her happiness, her wellbeing.

But he would not drop everything that he had slaved over to please her – no. He intended to make good on his words. She would not represent yet another failure, another shortcoming.

She would be his _greatest success_ – and if that meant crushing her feeble heart, then so be it. So she wanted to escape? He would tighten his grip around her, constrict her, force her to remain in solitude. He would _not_ allow the Americans to steal away his greatest chance at domination, at control.

He would rule this world with an iron fist – crush humanity beneath his heel and create a _superior_ race.

And Mina, whether she liked it or not, would be his queen, and _she_ would be remembered in every history book, feared and revered by all. She would not fall as he had once. She would _rise_, she would _rule_. For eventually, he would tire of his post, and under his faithful guidance, she would succeed.

HYDRA would be his greatest legacy, his greatest feat. And he would take the greatest pleasure in slowly killing each and every soul that had ever denied him victory. _This time_, he would not cower from death – this time, he would revel in their sorrow, their dying screams and begging sobs the most beautiful melody to his ears.

Yes, he could almost taste it.

The tales that would be spun – of the tinkering visionary, the mad scientist, the son of a nameless drunkard with not a penny to his name – how that _poor excuse for a man_ rose up and spat in the face of _fate_. The world would kneel before him and worship him like a god.

Would his niece hate him so then? When everything she had ever dreamt of was hers?

He smiled to himself. "Oh my dear, my little goddess. When you finally tire of running, when you finally accept your fate – we will have such fun together, my darling. The world will be ours for the taking. No one will hurt you – no one will deny you of your destiny. I pray you will accept it soon – I miss you my sweet, little one. You have grown so much – I cannot wait to see you blossom into a queen. _How proud_ your dear, dead father will be, then."

He howled with laughter at the thought, his razor-sharp teeth grinning with a feral hunger.

With a flourish, he poured himself a glass of Schnapps, cackling icily as he caught sight of the shattered glass, still scattered about the floor. He grinned wickedly, lifting his glass to the portrait of himself, hanging on the opposite wall.

"Hail HYDRA. Long live that raving lunatic, that treasonous bastard, the Red Skull."


	18. Dance of Death

**I know, I know, I'm in for a world of pain and suffering for once again taking FOREVER to update. Guys, I'm really sorry – the end of the school-year was absolutely exhausting and draining for me, and by the time I actually had free time to write, I was so dead that I hardly had any energy or motivation to type a single word. All I could do was sort of stare listlessly at my word document, sigh heavily, and then go on the internet. Or fan-girl about something else. Please don't batter me with stones. Oh, and then I realized I had AP summer homework to do and… yeah… please… I beg you… don't hurt me…**

**Anywho…**

**This. Could be. It. **

**The most MOMENTOUS – SUSPENSFUL – JAW-DROPPING – PLOT-TWISTING – WORLD-CHANGING chapter of Athena you – the glorious and grandiose readers – have EVER SEEN. **

**YEAH. I know. It's pretty awesome. And do you know why it's awesome? Because. There's a plot-twist. There's some fight-scenes. There's some shoot-outs. There's some escaping. There's some exciting stuff happening. **

**You might just want to check it out. In fact, I highly encourage you to do so.**

**As usual, thank you to my über amazing, wonderful, awesome reviewers: Musicwolf7 (especially for the touching and heartfelt review to last chapter!), Blackbird71, Zabusasgirl, Anodienthefair, ThePhantomismyLove, "Fangirl" – I am truly sorry to say, and you've probably figured this out by now but… monthly updates – Gosh, what I would do to pump out a half-decent chapter on a monthly basis, lawdy. Alas, that has yet to happen**** I hope you'll still read! – and anyone else who reads, favorites, follows, or reviews! You guys are my rocks! Thank you so much for the motivation and inspiration!**

**Regards,**

**J.B.**

**ATTENTION: Please pay attention to the time headings, as we flash-forward and flash-back on several occasions in this chapter.**

_**Flash Forward 48 Hours from Last Chapter**_

Berlin, Germany

1943

Bodies littered the teakwood floor, blood trickling from jawbones, blown to pieces by expertly aimed bullets. He had chosen traditional bullets, in favor of his tesseract-powered pistol – he wanted evidence of their deaths, their once-pristine uniforms, emblazoned with his insignia, to bear their blood like a rusty hue of paint, to bear their failings, their humiliation, their suffering. The tesseract obliterated with the speed and stealth of a fox. He lusted for time, not a mere instant, to breathe in the scent of cold fear, the metallic tang of blood, to hum to their silent screams that reverberated like the faintest melody. More still of the crimson liquid spilt from shattered skulls, seeping into the plush threads of the antique Baksheesh carpet. No matter; he could easily procure a new one, when Istanbul was his for the taking. The finest gems in the world would soon be his, the jewels of _his_ treasure rooms, lush with ancient antiquities, elegancy, finery – wealth beyond imagination, power beyond the common man's reach.

His long, crimson fingers glided with practiced grace across the keys, finally caressing the beloved surfaces of his _Bösendorfer_ grand pianoafter being removed for so many months, deep in the Alps. But, despite his slender hands being alight with the energy of death, extinguishing the lives of petty failures that deserved misery and slow suffering, who deserved hellish afterlives, withering under the weight of his death wish, he derived little ecstasy from his music.

The heavy chords of Franz Liszt's _Totentanz_ suited his mood with an almost surreal perfection – tragedy, rage, a poignant sense of loss and emptiness, a hollowness that worked its way deep into his psyche, leaving not but ruin and desolation. His heart ached with a dull and listless, throbbing pain that matched the growing migraine in his skull. Death, destruction, and bloodshed could not compare to the blooming sensory explosion of emotions he felt – he did not know where to turn; he was utterly lost in a hollow of darkened hopelessness, loneliness, despair, disappointment – perhaps a touch of regret – no, no, it was more than a touch. It was a deep sense of regret, something foreign and alien to him leaving him empty and dead.

His fingers rippled across the keys, ascending and descending scales – such mournful yet chaotic music would have left him in a state of ecstasy, a sort of unbridled perfection, unleashed from his skilled and willful fingertips. Yet, the strikingly modernistic cacophony of Liszt's composition left him cold, as deceased as the spirits it animated with its diabolical rhythms.

She was gone – and with her, more power than he ever could have imagined. Power beyond even his highly advanced psyche had been in his grasp, power that in itself was the key to complete control, to world domination. Power that his niece had been unable to fathom – power that she shunned, criticized – loathed. And now, she was gone – whisked away by the men that he had dreamt of crushing beneath his heel. His already blackened heart had constricted, shriveled under the weight of his rage and no amount of death or suffering could satisfy his fury. A mixture of anger and bitterness welled up within him like a spring, tainted with a cold, heavy feeling of betrayal and loss.

His niece had been torn from him, violently captured by his enemies in the heat of an air raid. She could be cold, starving, ailing – those American fiends could be torturing her, tormenting her, causing her pain and sadness, urging her to give up _the Red Skull_'s whereabouts. His heart ached with worry and concern.

And yet… what if it was what she had wanted, to fall into the allies' hands, to be coddled and _protected_ by that damned star-spangled man? What if his eternal _goodness_, his child-like innocence, had drawn her to him, had enthralled her with ideals of _freedom_ and _peace_? She had attempted by then fifteen escapes, each a failure, granted, but an attempt all the same. She had been reeling to escape his grasp, rejected his visions as madness, and had sought to make her opinions known by causing his elite officers chaos and tiresome annoyance. She had made a nuisance out of herself, adamant to prove herself a thorn in his side, a constant bother. What if she had wanted this, to be _rescued_ by those American fiends? What if she had hoped and longed for it to happen, for them to whisk her away, far from his watchful eye?

The idea was simply too painful to fathom, yet his mind was rife with its detail. What if she had wanted it, because she dreaded him, loathed him, despised him so strongly?

He shuddered, his slender fingertips jolting to a halt against the ivory keys, the music crashing into a dead silence.

No amount of death or suffering could erase the thought that lingered on his psyche.

She loathed _him_. Not simply the Red Skull.

He looked at the portrait that hung on the far wall, his darling little Mina, pale and sallow, a sickly little thing. Her eyes, a washed-out grey, so lifeless, so sad, yet so sweet and innocent. He loved her with all his heart – a world without her was unimaginable. She was destined to be his queen - she would be his greatest success, his legacy, his most magnificent creation. But love was something that he had been robbed of all too often – a deprivation as a boy, a lust as a foolish youngster, a poison as a seasoned scientist. His father had cast him off as a weakling who did not deserve the life he had been given; the love and attention that he had craved as a boy were never granted to him. His superiors regarded him as little more than a hopeless, utopian fanatic; they envied his brilliance and used it as a weapon against him.

_Victoria_. The woman he had loved more than anything in the entire world had betrayed him, manipulated his emotions, diverted his iron gaze from that of his true destiny. She'd filled his head with nonsense, ideas of marriage and a seemingly idyllic happily ever after – only to bring it all crashing down within moments, after so many blissful months.

His career and credibility in shreds, his lover whisked away, back to America, the land of milk and honey and roads paved with gold, he had purged himself of all true emotion, of all love, until there was naught but blackened hatred, utterly collected and composed by a facade of bitterly cold indifference.

He felt a twinge of regret. What he had demanded of Wilhelmina had been steep – nigh impossible. He had expected utter perfection from her – piano lessons, fencing lessons, marksmanship, tutoring in Greek, Arabian, Latin, Norwegian – dancing and etiquette classes, to ensure that she mirror the proper lady of traditional nobility. He viewed his laborious efforts at educating her as one of devotion and affection – he strived to create for her a life of privilege and luxury. Yet, he had awarded his love sparingly and with a bitter edge that had been distinct. He could not help it – he had never been and never would be the nurturing, warm spirit that his sister had been. Love had never been awarded to him as a child, despite his sister's patient efforts, and he, somewhat distressingly, had never been able to award love freely to others. His cold countenance and stubbornness had merely been his defense against the outside odds, set deeply against him. But had he unwittingly driven his niece away? He could not pretend to have been ignorant of her pleas for contact – he needed only to recollect the countless occasions on which he had been called away to the Alps, that little girl's lonesome eyes, begging him to stay.

Tears stung at his eyes; he brushed them with away with a rigid hand.

He would rescue his dear Mina from whatever tortures the Americans were inflicting upon her – he would free her from their imprisonment, and he would revitalize her faith in him, her trust and her admiration. He would show her the world as she had never seen it before – the world was her oyster, a treasure that would satisfy her every desire. He would give her the love that he had once craved; he would learn how to show her the affection that resided deep in his withered heart. If she truly had wanted to escape from his grasp – he would win her back. Together, they would take on the world, and he would prove to her how desperately he wanted this _for her_. Not simply for the Red Skull, not simply for him. He would pour his heart and soul into his efforts, into his inventions, into his army – all for her, all for her benefit and happiness.

And the Americans? They would know suffering and they would know grief and tragedy. They would witness destruction more devastating than anything Hitler's concentration camps could ever dream of mustering. They had taken his precious little goddess from him – and for that, for that they would pay.

And the first in line to suffer his vengeance?

Why, Captain America, of course.

XXX

_**Flash Back 48 Hours to present time, Last Chapter**_

The American Barracks

London, England – 1943

2000 Hours

"No, Rogers. It's too much of a risk – you're a walking poster boy for American activity and if you just happen to magically show up in the middle of Berlin, every Nazi in Germany is gonna be on our asses like white on rice. And that's not including the HYDRA boy scouts Schmidt's got crawling all over his _lavish estate_." Phillips eyed the bristling Captain with a steely glare.

"But sir, Dog Company isn't prepared to go up against HYDRA's technology – they'll blow them to pieces. The Howlers should be the ones to go in. It isn't fair to those boys – they're a bunch of newly enlisted, they've only been out of training for a few months now. HYDRA will annihilate them! We've been up against them time and time again – we have the necessary expertise."

"Don't get cocky, Rogers. You weren't much better off than them when you first started out, not counting your lucky dose of super soldier serum. In fact, I'd wager that you were worse off."

The young captain scowled at his superior, which Phillips rewarded with a grim smirk. "The fact of the matter is you and the Howlers have more pressing priorities in the Alps – HYDRA trains carrying god knows what are in and out of the main-base – the last and _most vital_ HYDRA base. Your skills are needed there, Rodgers, and you damn well know it. And, with all due respect,_ you _are the only _special_ one out of the Howlers. Which means that every single man in your battalion is just as at risk as any of the men in Dog Company. I need you in the Alps, blowing up HYDRA trains and stalling Schmidt's progress. Dog Company will take care of the girl in Berlin. I've got a boy that's just been promoted to Captain – Robert Leigh – he's nineteen but he has the balls to throw himself into the line of HYDRA fire. They'll take care of it, and they'll have plenty of reinforcements."

"I think wrecking HYDRA trains is child's play next to a highly advanced kidnapping." The young captain answered bitterly.

"You'd think twice about that if you had the patience to hear me out. We've intercepted a HYDRA code – Schmidt's little boy scout Zola has been in and out of the main-base, commuting to Berlin for materials – presumably for his weapons. Zola is Schmidt's closest goon – the information he could possess about Schmidt's next move could be vital. He's boarding a HYDRA transport line approximately twelve hours before the kidnap mission in Berlin is scheduled to be executed. You can't be two places at once, Captain, and I _want_ you capturing Zola. We're catching this girl completely on a lark – on _your_ judgment, which has a habit of being faulty. Zola is on the HYDRA inside – he's our best source of information next to Schmidt himself, and he's the only one in HYDRA who's liable to _not_ have the guts to crunch the little pill."

Rogers sighed heavily. "I'm just concerned – this girl could be the key to our beating HYDRA. Zola might provide us with information, but every single lead we've ever gotten on HYDRA has taken us nowhere. Schmidt's too good – he knows better than to leave a predictable trail. He'll know that we've got Zola at some point or another. He'll adapt. According to the army, I'm the only one powerful enough to take Schmidt down. What happens if I'm not good enough?"

"That's humble of you, Rogers."

"I'm serious, sir."

"So am I. What happens if this girl is a HYDRA informant and Schmidt's setting us up? What happens if we "rescue" her from HYDRA's _iron grip_ and it turns out that she doesn't want to be _rescued_? Then what? What happens then, Rogers?"

The captain lowered his head. "I get fired for screwing up."

"No, I'll get fired. And then I'll kill you."

"Not unless Schmidt gets to me first."

"Then I'll kill him. I've had dibs on killing you since the day Erskine dragged your sorry ass onto my army base."

Rogers chuckled quietly to himself. "I just wish I could be there." He said softly, after a few moments had passed. "She saved my life. I wanted to be the one to save hers. Pay the debt."

"You can't save everybody, Rogers. Sooner or later, you're going to have to accept that. Besides, until we know for sure that this kid's trustworthy, I'm viewing it as capture and imprisonment. Your conscience is the last thing I need screwing up my operation. Now get the hell out of my sight, will you? You've got briefings to read over and I have a meeting with the leader of Dog Company."

"You mean I'm not invited to the party?"

Phillips rolled his eyes. "You and Leigh would get along too well for my liking. I can barely deal with one of you at a time – two's a crowd. Now get your ass back to barracks."

Rogers nodded reluctantly. "Yes, sir."

XXX

Berlin, Germany – 1943

Twilight – the sky a whimsical purplish blue, the silhouettes of stars sprinkled across the horizon. The wind funneled through the alleyway with a biting, ominous chill that seeped into her sweat-dampened skin and made her pounding heart clench. Blue light trickled from her fingertips and sparked at the ends of her damp curls, the reserve of power revitalizing her tired muscles, increasing her pace.

Every escape thus far had been a failure – yet with each attempt, she learned something new, gained yet another trick to hide in her sleeve. The din of voices, clattering and clashing together in an overwhelming cacophony of sound had faded to a distant hum at the back of her head. She no longer lost energy so quickly – with each attempt, she grew stronger, faster – more agile, able to reserve more strength. With each attempt, she made it farther and farther out of the city, and the HYDRA guards, regardless of their weaponry, grew tired. The punishments grew worse – the Red Skull cheerfully ordered her to run kilometers in the pouring rain, stumbling through muddy fields with a rifle held upright, hauled up onto her feet every time she fell. That was only the first time she had managed to escape.

Then, they began experimenting. She was drugged with silvery syringes, filled with liquids that left her temporarily paralyzed. Several times, syringes filled with prototype chemicals were injected into her skin, leaving her violently ill. Compared to reciting odysseys in Greek whilst practicing piano arpeggios, the punishments of her childhood, these were a hellish sort of cruelty that she had never before experienced. The vicious, unrelenting animosity of the Red Skull only made itself more clear with every escape attempt – yet, she did not dare give in. The Red Skull had ensured her that he would stop at nothing to achieve his goals, even if it meant crushing her every effort. She would challenge him to that.

She upped her pace, the muscles in her legs silently crying out in both agony and exhilaration. She could hear the hollow clop of jackboots striking the cobblestones, growing louder with every passing second. She willed an orb of electrified blue light to bloom from her open palms, and with a swift backward motion, she flung the light at the soldiers. An earsplitting crack rippled through the air and the screams of HYDRA soldiers punctured the gusty wind like thunder. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder, her stomach lurching as the smell of scorched flesh flooded her nostrils. _Two down… seven to go. _The hum of a bullet whizzing past her rang crystal clear in her ears, the searing heat of its speed present against her skin, the bullet only narrowly missing its target. It was some solace that the soldiers were forbidden to use tesseract-powered weapons against her – what good would she be to HYDRA if she was not but a speck of dust, vaporized by the sheer force of their guns?

She steadied her breathing in an effort to preserve the remaining shreds of her energy, focusing her gaze forward, blocking out the noise of the HYDRA soldiers behind her. She sensed that she only had a few moments left of precious power, before her body finally crumbled under the toll of strain and fatigue. The soft din of voices, rich and multi-layered, grew louder with every step, her movements magnified, they pounded in her ears. Her muscles cried out in protest as she forced herself to move faster, her throat ragged as the cool night air filtered into her lungs in short gasps. She heard the razor-sharp buzzing of a bullet behind her, felt its presence only seconds behind her –

Searing pain and heat crippled her leg, her knees buckling and her body falling forward onto the hard stone pavers, her body taking the sudden realization of its weight, limp and lifeless. She lifted her head just slightly to look down at her leg, a bullet embedded in her calf, blood pouring from the wound. She let her head roll back, hitting the ground with a solid _thunk_. Her eyes gazed blurrily at the twighlight, the sky a greyish purple, dotted with tiny, crystalline stars. A blackness, like velvet, slowly crept in from the corners of her eyes, flooding faster now, like a cascade, until there was not but darkness and a single sentence resounding like a distant echo.

_Rise up, rise up, rise up._

XXX

The American Barracks

London, England – 1943

2100 Hours

Robert E. Leigh nervously fingered his new rank tab, a pair of silver bars pinned to the shoulder of his beige uniform. In the past months, he'd seen more carnage than any of his beloved comics could muster, their brilliantly colored pages nothing compared to the vivid crimson of blood, the blurry silver of flying shrapnel. At nineteen years, his superiors considered him a very unlikely candidate for his position, much less his rank, but the new captain was used to defying odds. He let his fingers falter from his shoulder, reaching up to ghost the rough surface of a thin scar, just peeking out from his hairline. His father had smashed a lamp against his skull in a state of drunken rage, when he was but thirteen years old. The bone cracked, he'd bled until his younger sister found him unconscious on the floor, beside his father, he too unconscious, the intoxication catching up to him.

Bitterly, Leigh let his hand drop to his side, listless and limp. He shouldn't have survived that. He shouldn't have survived a Nazi bullet to the thigh, but he had. Beginner's luck, perhaps. A few months on the frontlines in Italy had taught him to never dwell on a lucky break – you could survive a gunshot wound one day, and end up stepping square on a landmine the next. Do yourself a favor, let bygones be bygones. Focus on staying alive long enough for the new day.

He felt a tap on the shoulder, a scrawny Corporal clearing his throat beside him.

"Captain Leigh, sir, the Colonel is ready to see you now."

Leigh eyed him glassily for a moment, still unused to being referred to as "sir". Hell, the soldier was probably older than him. He nodded silently and turned for the Colonel's office.

Of course, it wasn't really an office – more like a cinderblock storage closet, with a dented metal desk, a dusty light bulb hanging from an electrical wire, a gigantic furnace taking up the better half of the cramped room. At the desk, the colonel had his head bent, a cigarette held between his lips, grey-blue smoke curling from his lips. An itch began at the back of the captain's throat, longing for the soothing smoke of one of the Pall Mall's resting in his back pocket.

The colonel glanced up at him, his eyes narrowed, his lips pulled downward in a taut frown. He removed the cigarette from his mouth, keeping his gaze steady on the young captain, and held it between his fingers.

"Leigh," The word punctuated the dull roar of the furnace like a spark. "Sit down. You look like you could use a drink."

"I've been meanin' to lay off the whiskey for a while…" Leigh answered absently, adding a stern "sir" after a moment of silence for good measure.

Phillips eyed him levelly before taking a swig from his own flask. "You've read your briefings, I'm assuming."

Leigh nodded. "Yes sir."

"Alright. We've got a recon team in Berlin, tracking subject Athena's every move – and the HYDRA detail's every move. We've documented roughly fifteen escape attempts, including one that occurred about an hour ago."

"She successfully broke out of the grounds?"

"One or way another, yes. She's smart – she changes up her routine every time – a different exit, a different situation; sometimes when she's out and about, sometime's she's breaking loose from Schmidt's residence. If she's off the grounds, she's accompanied by a civilian detail – most likely so she doesn't attract any unwanted attention. Schmidt's not on good standing with the Nazis and he's sure as hell not on good terms with us. Now from our observations, it's riskier for her to break loose if she's wandering around town – too many possible observers and the HYDRA guards are already on her tail – they can easily catch up to her. Her favored routes seem to be out of a basement window, usually between dusk and around one or two in the morning."

"So she attempted a breakout today?"

"Yes. According to what's been documented, she broke out of an attic window at the top floor of the house. Jumped to a tree branch at the eastern side – swung herself up onto a branch in the neighboring property – hit ground from there and managed to get about 1.6 kilometers into the city before the HYDRA detail caught up to her."

"Did she kill any of the HYDRA guards?"

"Roughly ten out of a thirty-man squadron. Fifteen other guards remained at the residence."

"You mean Schmidt's got _forty-five_ men guarding this broad?"

Phillips smiled grimly. "He started out at about twenty men. She's turning into a threat. Or a pain in the ass, I suppose."

"Or both. Hell, if I were her, I'd be leaning toward being a pain in the ass more than anything. If I were her, the only thing keeping me sane would be lighting a fire under Schmidt's ass. I wouldn't have the resources or the man-power to really pose as a threat – just an annoyance."

"I figure that's what she's aiming to do. But, whatever the hell she's aiming at doesn't interest me. What interests me is that we get her before Schmidt decides to move her to a different location – I reckon that if she continues to be making fairly public escape attempts, Schmidt will have no choice but to move her somewhere more isolated. The last thing he needs is unwanted publicity on HYDRA, given that they're really not popular with anybody at the moment. Now, if everything on my agenda goes as planned, Dog Company will be shipping out to Berlin in 24 hours."

Leigh nodded.

"Now, if everything goes smoothly, Dog Company will take the following positions. Sixty of your men will be positioned at intervals around the city, dressed in civilian SS attire; they will be all armed, and will reinforce the operation should you give the signal. An armed civilian truck will be waiting approximately a block from the property to transport subject Athena, yourself, and the ten of your men who will follow you onto the immediate property. Ten other men will be positioned surrounding the property; they'll be the first reinforcements to get to you if anything goes wrong. Your objective is to blend in to the HYDRA troops; your weapons will be silenced, and you will all be outfitted with tranquilizers that Stark's developed in our labs. When that raid siren goes off, you and your men run. Grab that girl; sedate her, and get the hell out of there. The reinforcements will be on that property or damn near it as soon as that siren sounds – you will be covered and you will have plenty of support. Do you understand, Captain?"

"Yes, sir."

Phillips sighed heavily. "I've gotten a lot of bullshit from my commanding officers for having you head up this mission, Leigh. They say you're just a kid."

"So was David when he struck down Goliath." Leigh answered quietly. "I won't fail you, Colonel. I'll get that girl – bring the whole city of Berlin crashing down behind me if I have to."

Phillips inhaled sharply, eyeing the young captain grimly.

"I expect nothing less. Go brief your men."

XXX

Berlin, Germany – 1943

Evening of the American Attack on Johann Schmidt's Berlin Home

2300 Hours

She stared up at the moulded ceiling, pupils glassy, a dull throbbing beginning at the back of her eye sockets. The blankets lay strewn across the end of the bed, tossed off to relieve her aching muscles of the oppressive late spring heat. Her back throbbed, long, jagged scabs stretching at an angle across her back, like slash marks. They itched and burned as the skin tightened around them, still pink as the wounds healed. Her left leg lay propped on a pillow, packed and wrapped with gauze. She could feel the crater the HYDRA bullet had left, sending pangs of raw, fiery pain up her leg with even the slightest movement. She glanced over at her night table, a silvery spent bullet lying lonely in the moonlight. She had asked the physician to disinfect for her, after removing it, along with a hefty chunk of flesh, from her leg – so that she might keep it. The doctor had given her quite a queer expression – a mixture of horror and skepticism. She replied softly that she wished to keep it as a reminder of who her enemies were, garnering a further dismayed look from the physician. Reluctantly, he agreed. So there it sat, all alone on her night table. Her last escape had not fared her well, although in truth, none of them had.

This time though, had been particularly painful. The Red Skull, phoned immediately after the occurrence, ordered that she be whipped until her flesh broke, leaving bloody, jagged slashes across her back – as if a tiger had clawed at her. The soldiers that attended her beating, for once, removed their masks so that she could stare into their icy blue eyes and grow enraged at their haughty smirks. Herr Skull had ordered that Johann's riding crop be used as the weapon of choice; once used to gently stir his prized black mare, the crop was now used as a weapon of torture against his niece. Her wounded leg had buckled beneath her at the impact, but they would haul her up again and again, laughing, blowing clouds of cigarette smoke in her eyes, cackling and cursing at her. They called her bitch and freak and monster and whore.

As she lay in bed now, the thought of what Johann would have done to the soldiers for treating her so brutally did not even ghost across her mind. She didn't care what he would have done, what he would have said. She found it hard to care about anything now. Her life revolved around planning and attempting to flee, only to be dragged back and to be beaten and bloodied and taunted.

"Perhaps I should kill myself." She whispered. "It would be easy. I could do it – no weapons – just the power. Keep going until I can't anymore – until the power consumes me."

She felt tears prick her dry eyes, but she did not wipe them away. Her shame and anguish were written across her flesh – every HYDRA guard could see her suffering. She no longer cared what they thought of her – she no longer cared about escaping, about living, about anything. It had all become part of the routine, the daily agenda. Lifeless movements, carried out only because she felt they had to be.

Johann's letters kept coming. It had been months since she had responded to one, until just that week, when finally, she felt that the one lingering thought on her mind had to be said.

_I want to die. Please, let me die._

Johann did not respond.

And so, lying there in the shadows of the waning moonlight, she came to the conclusion.

Her next attempt would _not_ be an attempt, an attempt at escaping, an attempt at freedom. She had one goal in mind, and it would be simple to fulfill.

She closed her eyes, faintly hoping that Death would open its gates to her, that the loving arms of her parents would welcome her into the quiet silence of decease.

The howling of an air raid alarm pierced the silence, the rumble of bomber jets weighting down the silent skies with a heavy roar.

She blinked once, before letting her eyes close. The guards would drag her out in a moment or two – why should she feel compelled to rush? It didn't matter if the timbers of the house came crashing down on her – nothing would be as painful as what she had suffered.

XXX

Captain Leigh eyed his work solemnly, the body of young HYDRA guard, the skull punctured by his bullet. Another body lay beside it, also shot by his bullet. Leigh glanced over at the officer beside him and nodded silently, giving the signal. With swift and silent motions, they donned the masks of the two guards, completing their HYDRA regalia, and tucked the bodies behind a thick row of hedges. They were still on the perimeter of the property, hidden by darkness and a wall of bushes and thick-trunked trees from the watchful gaze of HYDRA personnel. Their luck had been rich – the bright beams of HYDRA torches had been extinguished some days before – pesky neighbors had complained of the invasive lights, allowing Dog Company a welcome cover of blackness. With silent, measured steps, the two Americans made their way to their positions at the iron fence to the side of the property. The two soldiers they had killed had been coming off of their break to change shifts. Like clockwork, Leigh and the other man fell into their places with a certain ease.

Leigh swallowed hard. It couldn't be that easy. Or could it? They weren't outmanned – if anything, they had more men than the HYDRA detail. But still – HYDRA had weapons capable of vaporizing a man in seconds. Leigh had his bullets and whatever luck he could manage to salvage. With hope and good timing, the air raid would cause enough noise and chaos to make their mission simple. The alarm would go off – ten men would move in, machine guns at the ready and with reinforcements rapidly filling in the gaps. Leigh and a handful of others would move in close to the girl – grab her, sedate her, and move while the reinforcements covered their backs. Move her to the truck – get the hell out. It sounded simple enough. Or was he simply trying to rationalize the fear that had worked its way into the pit of his stomach?

As if on cue, the heavens seemed to explode with light and fire and smoke – the iron bellies of the bomber jets unloading their volatile cargo onto a city of sleeping Gestapo men, Nazis – perhaps even Hitler himself. He dared not think – he willed his legs to sprint forward, matching the pace of the other HYDRA guards, blending in, keeping silent and alert. The guards ahead of him flanked the back exit, as if welcoming their prisoner into the din. He fell into the line of soldiers, his heart pounding in his ears as he waited and waited for what seemed like forever. _What the hell's taking them?_ He thought anxiously. _Did the girl wanna take her curlers out or something? Put on her Sunday best, go out in style?_ A few precious seconds longer – it felt like years – and the pale, bony figure of a young woman appeared, dragged by HYDRA guards as if she were not but a rotting corpse to be thrown in a pit and buried. He laid eyes on her for a split second, taking in her almost emaciated form, her limp hair, her grey complexion – she looked like death warmed over, not but maybe sixteen or seventeen years – a child still – not much younger than himself. But he couldn't gawk any longer – he had a mission, he had to move or all would be lost.

Without a thought, he dashed – and his movements were but a faint blur from there on. He could feel his gloved hands clasp onto the girl's frail arm – so frail it nearly slipped from his grasp. Before him, the other American had her other arm, a needle sinking into her flesh – within moments the girl's body was limp in their arms, barely a squeaked scream escaping her lips. Flashes of blue light erupted around them, coupled with the rattle of machine-gun fire. American troops flooded the grounds, clashing with HYDRA guards – yelling in English and German barely audible over the din of the bomber jets above. The two officers sprinted, the girl awkwardly lifted above their shoulders, a dead weight that was slowing them down. Without a word, Leigh hefted the frail body from the other man's arms, swinging her up and over his shoulders.

"Move, Lieutenant!" he barked at the other man and dashed for the gates. He threw a nervous glance back to see another American officer clash with a blinding wall of blue light, his body vaporized in less than a moment, his ragged scream still echoing on the air. Blue fire was everywhere, blinding and alien – he knew what it could do, the carnage it could create in moments. But he'd never seen it before, with his own eyes, so close and so real. It was only ever described to him – rarely captured in photographs. What he saw now left him in a mixture of awe and horror. Above them, the air war raged, sleek German fighter aircrafts rising up with stealth and speed to meet the American bombers. The siren wailed over and over, deafening when coupled with the roar of exploding missiles. He glanced back again the Lieutenant covering his back, pistols at the ready – he glanced to the side to see an American soldier with a machine gun rattling off at the pursuing HYDRA guards. _It can't be this easy._

Out of nowhere, a HYDRA guard sprang up, as if from thin air – running at him, rifle ready –

_Why the hell isn't he shooting? _

The lieutenant behind him fired his gun, the HYDRA soldier falling backward with a stifled yelp.

"Why aren't they shooting?" he yelled over his shoulder. "Why the hell aren't they shooting at _us_? We've got their prisoner, damn it!"

"They can't shoot at us unless they wanna risk shooting at her!" The Lieutenant yelled. "She's a weapon – if they kill her, Schmidt'll have their asses!"

Leigh sucked in his breath, his throat like sandpaper, silently thanking God for the cover. They were rapidly nearing the border of the property, with HYDRA guards still in hot pursuit. The transport vehicle was at the edge, ready and waiting for their cargo. His breaths were short and ragged, but he upped his pace, his legs on fire as he sprinted for the truck. His body hit the side, colliding with the metal, and the waiting soldiers were prying the girl from his arms, swinging her up and in. He clung to the side of the truck, the other two men jumping on, and the driver floored the gas.

Hellfire broke out behind – Blue light blazed from the HYDRA weapons and the roar of engines deafened the smoky air; soldiers were running, diving into vehicles, surging forward. They could fire at will now, the girl hidden – a blaze of blue grazed the roof of the truck, a serpentine hissing erupting from the metal. Leigh flung himself into the back of the truck, falling hard against the metal floor as an explosion rocked the vehicle. Nearly thrown out of alignment, the truck swerved violently, a gaping, smoking hole in the metal roof.

"Jesus Christ," a soldier moaned beside him, his hands feverishly working to strap the girl to a stretcher.

"Keep her stable." Leigh snapped. "We want her in one piece." He glanced over at the other soldiers, guarding the back entrance, some clinging to the sides of the vehicle, guns cocked. "Open fire, soldiers! Reserve what ammo you can but get those HYDRA guards off our tails." His eyes darted forward to the driver. "Do anything you can to get 'em off our path – take detours, swerve, speed – anything! Lieutenant, where are the grenades that Stark developed?"

"Got 'em, sir. Working on it now." He handed off two of the grenades. "Throw them on my count – one – two – now!"

Another explosion rocked the vehicle, a blinding vortex of orange light swirling from the detonated grenades. Only seconds later, a flash of vivid cobalt blue and aquamarine light blazed through the truck, violently twisting and wrenching at the armored walls. The inhuman howls of the soldiers clinging to the sides were cut sickeningly short – a silence so dead and cold that he could barely keep from vomiting. His back pressed against the metal, Leigh felt the sear of heat blister his spine and he haplessly threw his body forward, gnashing into his lip at the pain. He felt the skin break, seared onto the metal, and he lay on his stomach, even the metal floor hot from the impact of the fire. He barely managed to mumble the other officer's name – his limp body barely a blur before his retinas, seared by the blinding light. He called out again, a yelp of agony and fear – knowing the man was dead. Another soldier whimpered beside him, his side bloodied, his uniform torn. Still, the truck raced forward, albeit on teetering tires. As long as they were still moving…

Sucking in his ragged breaths, Leigh hefted himself up onto his knees, the pain in his back like a fire so hot – hotter than hell. The Devil would have withered in that oppressive heat. A single grenade rolled precariously across the floor, the rickety surface throwing it left and right. With sweat-slicked hands, he grabbed onto it firmly, halting its movement, and with a shaky arm, he lobbed it forward, silently begging God for it to hit its mark….

Orange light swirled up in a luminous ball, the smell of gasoline and cooking flesh permeating the smoky air, the howls of dying men drowning out the roar of bomber jets in the silvery skies above. A gas tank in the back of HYDRA vehicle – with that shaky arm he'd hefted it far, hitting its target – blowing the HYDRA convoy into a vivid scarlet explosion of death and blood and smoke and metal and shrapnel.

His knees were like jelly beneath him and he buckled, falling to his floor, his stomach feeling as if a rocket were strapped to his back, pushing him down, the pain like no other.

He gasped at the driver to move like hell – and his eyes clamped shut. With a groggy movement, he slung his arm out, feeling the frail, unconscious body of Athena beneath him.

The world went slowly to blackness. He welcomed it.

XXX

Berlin, Germany

1943

24 Hours after the attack on Schmidt's Berlin Residence

"Herr Schmidt, there is news from the base – it is urgent!"

The officer's voice was barely audible to his ears – only music filled his mind, beautiful, poignant, tragic – enraged. His mind was on fire – he was like a raging, rabid beast, unleashed from its hellish cage, hungry and lustful for blood and for death and for misery of any kind. He lusted for, he longed for it – oh, how he could drink in the screams of his soldiers – but no, no they were his soldiers no longer. They were failures – all of them, damnable idiotic failures that deserved hell and suffering and grief and _death_.

"Would you be so careless to interrupt me if I were speaking, soldier?"

"Never, _mein Herr_."

"Then why would you interrupt my playing?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the soldier lower his head in shame, like a whipped child, and he grinned fiendishly.

"Never mind that. I sadly haven't the energy to kill you. You see, young man, I took such joy from killing those men – look at them – obliterated, destroyed, decaying shells of what they could have been. They failed me, soldier, they failed me as you will _not_. You will not fail me because you have seen what happens to failures – there is no time for petty apologies or forgiveness in this world, soldier, and nor will there time for such in HYDRA. You understand this?"

"Every word, Herr Schmidt – clearer than finely cut crystal."

He smiled grimly. "Tell me, soldier – what _urgent_ news is there for me now, hmm? I have lost my most prized weapon. The American prances about Germany destroying my cargo trains and whatever else he can get his hands on that is of value to me. Tell me, soldier, what else is _new_? A change in the weather? Hitler is having a tea-party with Churchill? Eva Braun is having an affair with Douglas MacArthur?"

The soldier's Adam's apple bobbed nervously. "Dr. Zola – he – he – the Americans happened to attack the cargo train that Dr. Zola was on, sir. Heading to the main-base. He – he's been captured – by the Americans."

Johann flexed his long, crimson fingers as if he were readying to strangle the young soldier.

"_That_ is the urgent news you have for me, soldier?"

"Y – yes, sir."

Johann stood, hands clasped behind his back, stepping over the corpses that littered his living-room, pacing about like a caged lion, deprived of meat. "I do not give a damn about what happens to our dear little Dr. Zola, soldier. I hope the Americans shoot the bumbling idiot."

"They have remanded him to Switzerland, sir. They are expecting you to negotiate his freedom, in return for HYDRA's full surrender and cooperation with the United States."

The Red Skull's laughter was like a monstrous howl, a raspy cackling noise that grated on the air. "Do they really think it will be that easy?" He scoffed, his tone almost fanatical through his laughter. "Do they really think I care about what happens to that _simpleton_? He is _useless_! His designs are second-rate – _my weapons_ are what have brought us _success_! Zola is a pathetic excuse, desperate to please his Nazi masters. The only reason I kept him alive was so that I could flay him and mount his disgusting hide in my exhibits."

He paced back and forth, his heart racing with a mixture of rage and utter contempt. "Send a message to the main-base immediately. It is the central artery – with Zola in their grasp, the Americans probably think that they contain the doorway to all of my _precious secrets_. Of course, that could not possibly be farther from the truth, but no doubt the Americans have grown bolder. They will attack – soon. Have every entrance locked down and heavily reinforced. I want all soldiers armed and prepared for battle. And soldier – ready the aircraft for immediate take-off. I think I have a delightful little surprise for our star-spangled man."

"You mean to initiate the final strike, _mein Herr_."

Johann grinned. "Oh no, soldier, not yet. I cannot possibly get anything done with the good Captain waltzing about. No, no – I plan to send him on a flight he cannot possibly return from."

"And the tesseract, _mein Herr. _Where would you have us transport it?"

"Keep it here. Guarded, of course. The Americans have been here once – for all they know, they have achieved that which they came for. But I intend to set them reeling at a loss every bit as dreadful and _tragic_ as mine. They took my niece from me. I will take their _Star-spangled man _from them. They will pay for what they have done. I will crush them under my heel, every one of them. When the world is HYDRA's, soldier – we will wipe that damnable country off the face of the earth."

XXX

The American Barracks

London, England – 1943

1000 Hours

She lay on a steel gurney, her frail frame quaking with ragged breaths. The leather straps that bound her to the stretcher were almost laughably futile – she was so thin and so bony, there was at least an inch of gaping space between her body and the bonds. Sensory patches dotted her ghostly skin – like fine porcelain, threaded through with spidery blue veins. A matted tangle of tawny curls fell from her fragile skull, her eyes closed tightly, her lips parted just slightly, twitching from time to time – as if in a silent language, murmuring dreams that only she could hear, that only she was privy to. He longed to speak to her – to tell her that all was right now, that she was safe, that nothing would happen to her. She had saved him from a fiery death in that factory, and now, he had repaid the debt. She was safe from HYDRA's iron grasp, from the Red Skull's far-reaching gaze.

But he hadn't repaid the debt. Someone else had – a mere kid, a nobody. Not the American hero. It shouldn't have been like this. He should have carried her out of the fire and smoke, to safety. It would have made Skull's disgusting skin crawl with fury.

Steven Rogers lowered his head, staring down at the concrete floor below him. He couldn't be like that – so arrogant and self-centered. The boys who had rescued this girl – if it could even be called that, so soon – had fought, many of them losing their lives – the others, horribly wounded. He had never met Robert Leigh, never spoken to him – but he'd stared at his comatose body, the hideous burns that gnarled his frame. He could only imagine the agony the boy had suffered to protect that girl and to bring her to safety.

He wished that a glass window wasn't separating him from the body of Athena – they were no better than HYDRA. They had her caged up like an alien, some foreign species to be dissected. He wondered what her real name was, what village or city she came from, and how in God's name she had ended up in HYDRA. What if Schmidt had taken her from her parents? What if he had wrenched her from the loving arms of innocent bystanders – what if he had taken her for himself, to use as an experiment, a pawn – material for his gruesome weapons. Schmidt had thoughtlessly drained the energy of hundreds of American soldiers – he'd set them toiling in his factories for days and days without food, without water – kept them in cages like circus animals. Who was this girl? What had she suffered? He desperately longed to know.

Hollow footsteps sounded behind him.

"Did Zola live up to your expectations?" he murmured quietly – almost bitterly.

Someone sighed behind him. "I bought that bastard a steak – little shit's a vegetarian."

"Isn't that the style nowadays in the Reich? Hitler wants his people to be kind to the animals and yet he treats millions of innocent people like they're milk-bones for his dachshunds."

"Well, HYDRA doesn't discriminate."

"What did Zola tell you?"

"Not a whole lot more than we already know. Schmidt's a space shot – thinks he's a god and has every intention of blowing the world to smithereens to prove his point."

"Did he tell you anything about her?" Rogers gazed forlornly at the girl beyond the glass.

"The guards are bringing him out now. I want him to see her for himself. He'll know then that we aren't playing anymore. If what you're saying is true – that HYDRA intended to use this girl as a weapon – then I'm sure as hell going to take advantage of whatever she has to offer."

The captain sighed and stared down at the floor. Even now, the clack of army-issue shoes hitting the concrete floor echoed into the wide mouth of the containment area.

Like clockwork, Phillips drew a black curtain across the viewing window, blocking the girl from sight. Rogers supposed that he meant to keep the girl concealed from Zola until the time was right.

Two guards escorted a hand-cuffed little scientist to the center of the viewing area, the girl contained just beyond the glass in a concrete cell, closely monitored. A thin layer of stubble had grown on the little man's pudgy cheeks; his blond hair was mussed, his glasses askew, his ridiculous polka-dot bowtie removed. Strangely enough, the man wore a decidedly smug scowl, rather than the frightened gaze that seemed to have been stitched to his face, when in the Red Skull's presence.

"Guten Abend, Captain. What a pleasure to finally be meeting you face to face."

Rogers stared at him grimly. "Hopefully your ugly mug won't be around for much longer." He muttered.

Zola smiled coyly. "I trust that it won't."

Phillips cleared his throat. "You've been a very good dog for us, Zola. If you answer this next question I might give you a bone – and _really_ send you to Switzerland this time."

"I cannot help you anymore. I was not Schmidt's confidant. Merely his weapons designer. Whatever secrets he keeps I am not privy to."

"Well, that may be the case typically but, I really think this particular 'secret' would be hard to miss." Phillips replied somewhat saucily. He gestured to a guard to pull back the heavy curtain, obscuring their view.

Rogers watched in silence as Zola's face twisted – a mixture of shock and bewilderment – but he quickly forced it back into place, resuming a rigid stare. His lips were pursed, almost skeptically – but equally awestruck.

"Who is she?" Phillips demanded.

Zola was silent.

"Who. Is she?" The colonel grew impatient. "Now. Or your vacation in Switzerland's canceled permanently."

"So…" Zola whispered, stepping closer to the window, eyes glassy. "You have found her."

"I want a name, doctor."

Zola's eyes flickered back at Phillips, but he seemed distracted.

"Who is she, Zola?" Rogers asked quietly, keeping his voice measured.

"Her name is Wilhelmina Hofstadter."

"Good, that's a name. Now how did she end up in HYDRA?" Phillips urged.

"She is his niece." Zola answered quietly. "Her mother – a widower – she died some years ago. She was his sister. He took the girl in after her death. … She will be pleased, I imagine, that you captured her."

Rogers lifted an eyebrow. "You mean she doesn't support HYDRA and Schmidt?"

"Oh no… well, it is rather complicated I suppose. She supports her uncle, but… not the Red Skull. Or… so I would think."

"And that's supposed to mean what, exactly?" Phillips interjected.

Zola glanced up at him, his eyes still focused on the girl. "The girl was against HYDRA's endeavors – she viewed them as I suppose most would – she saw Herr Schmidt's endeavors as madness. However, she does not know that Herr Schmidt is in fact the Red Skull – Herr Schmidt had been meaning to reveal to her for quite some time his true identity but… never got to it. He revealed to her his alter-ego, but portrayed him as a separate entity from himself. Thus, she believes that the 'Red Skull' is the leader of HYDRA, and the engineer of HYDRA's plans. She believes Herr Schmidt, her uncle, rather, is simply a scientist, brainwashed by the 'Red Skull' into believing his idealistic views."

"That does complicate things." Rogers murmured.

Phillips continued, nonplussed. "What did Schmidt intend to use her for?"

"As a weapon, of course." Zola replied, as if the answer was obvious. "She is the most powerful asset Schmidt possesses – er…. _Possessed_."

"How is that?"

"Well she is… she managed to imbue the power of the tesseract into her own physical form – we have only achieved such with weapons but she surpassed all odds in surviving such a strenuous process."

"And Schmidt forced her to endure that process?"

Zola adjusted his glasses. "No, no – she did it all on her own. Well, accidentally, I suppose. She managed to somehow find her way to the main-base – Herr Schmidt was quite secretive of his work – very protective of her, did not want to reveal the gravity of his work to her so soon – she was apparently drawn to the tesseract, the tesseract itself responded to her energy and granted her endless power. It was all the result of a lucky instance. None of it was engineered. Of course, the power took its time in fully imbuing its essence within her – it was not until, one evening in the factory – that the tesseract finally answered our pleas for completion."

"That night in the factory." Rogers said softly. "That attack – they were right in the middle of an experiment – she threw out that force-field – that must have been when she fully took on the power. Does Schmidt intend to use her for his plans? You said he's targeting the entire planet – does he plan to have her initiate this?"

Zola shook his head. "Schmidt knew that she rejected his plans – she would not go along with HYDRA's cause unless he somehow proved to her that it was a worthwhile one, a humane one. Or – he could destroy enough forces and enough people to convince her that there was nowhere else to run – that she would have no choice but to submit to his plans. She attempted escape so many times – it was obvious that she was seeking to find an ally somewhere; Schmidt feared that she would seek you out." Zola nodded at Rogers. "The last time I communicated with Schmidt, he made it clear that he intended to initiate his strike on the United States – you do, after all, currently possess the most powerful military in the world. He intends to completely destroy you, if nothing else than to prove to his niece that there is no safe haven for her to flee to. She must submit to his will."

Phillips was grim. "Thank you for your cooperation, doctor. Men, remove him to his cell."

"I wish you luck in your endeavors, Colonel." Zola called as the guards guided him back. "Herr Schmidt will no doubt exact his revenge on you, for taking his niece from him. I suggest you tread carefully."

His words faded to silence, leaving the captain and the colonel in a still, eerie quiet.

Rogers broke the silence. "We don't have any choice, do we? We have to get Schmidt before he gets us – and Zola seemed pretty clear that Schmidt intends to do just that."

Phillips sighed heavily. "So I wasted half of a company on a capture mission for a girl that isn't going to do us any good. We're too late."

Rogers stood up. "If we take out HYDRA, there's still the Nazis to worry about, sir. Besides, if we hadn't gotten the girl – there could always be a chance that we don't stop him today or tomorrow or the next day – but each day that he's without that girl, is a few precious hours for us to finally beat him. I've seen what that girl can do – she could destroy all of us if Schmidt ordered her to."

Phillips eyed him levelly. "The fact that there's s till a chance that we _won't_ beat him, regardless of whether or not he has the girl, still concerns me. Let's go brief your men."

XXX

HYDRA Base

The Alps – 1943

Johann reclined in his chair, long legs stretch out, booted feet crossed at the ankles and resting on his desk. He had a map sprawled across his lap, his cigarette holder held lazily between two long, gloved fingers.

"Eighty men will remain here to guard the entrances and to stall the American forces, not including the crewmen aboard the airship. The bombs have been set to detonate specifically on my command, yes?"

"Yes, Herr Schmidt, just as you ordered. They will only respond to your touch – a foreign fingerprint will cause the aircraft to self-destruct instantly." An officer rattled off with instant precision.

Johann took a long drag on his cigarette, blowing a spiral of grey-blue smoke into the air.

"Excellent. Now," he stroked his chin thoughtfully. "The remainder of our men have been evacuated to the bases in France, Belgium, and the Netherlands. All weaponry has been removed, all blueprints either disposed of or previously transported. Now, all that is left to do is to wait and to be ready whenever that simpleton strikes."

"Sir, if I may – speak frankly,"

He sighed and gestured impatiently at the young officer. "You may."

"I understand that this is all essentially a ruse – for the Americans to find our facilities all but abandoned but – the airship – I don't understand – why do you plan to have them fly it? Would it not be a waste of time and equipment to use it for essentially nothing but a distraction?"

Johann grinned wickedly. "Ah but you see, it is not merely a distraction. It is my ticket to a peacefully uninterrupted apocalypse. I cannot achieve anything with that damned American waltzing about Europe destroying whatever progress we make. He is the only thing that the American military has that is comparable to my level of strength and power – rather unfortunately for them, his intellect is severely lacking. Yet, he still proves to be a maddening nuisance. But, if I can get rid of him quickly and quietly, while securing my own 'security', HYDRA's agenda will progress on course. You see, Zola knows that I had planned to launch my initiative on the United States, prior to my niece suffering a slight mishap on the part of the Americans, fools that they are. Zola, now undoubtedly being in their custody, must have told them something – and the only information he would know of to tell them would be that I was, indeed, planning to attack their country. So, no doubt the Americans will respond accordingly by attempting to attack HYDRA's central artery, here. In expecting that, I have a rather elaborate disappearing act that will send our dear Captain America on a flight to his death. Once the Americans are tragically deprived of their key weapon, they will be powerless against HYDRA's might. After that, I can easily take care of the issue regarding my niece. But as long as the ridiculous star-spangled man lives, our plans will be forced to a standstill."

He stood up, stretching languidly. "While the common American soldier will be kept busy pursuing _our_ soldiers, Captain Rogers will undoubtedly take it upon himself to pursue me, since I suppose I am his _most hated enemy_. I, of course, will be rushing to the aircraft in the hopes of getting it off the ground successfully before the Captain can reach me, so that I might destroy his beloved country while he stands powerless, on the ground. But therein lies my little scheme – of course, it will require some effort on my part, but the results should be marvelous, considering Rogers is stupid enough to fall for it. I shall disappear into the airfield, long before Rogers has any idea where I've vanished – the aircraft, being the largest and most obvious place for me to go will be dead-center. Rogers will undoubtedly 'pursue' me in the location he thinks best – and, of course, if you were a nonsensical little hero pursuing the dastardly villain, wouldn't you say your chances of catching him would be better if you were to jump into the beastly looking machine rather than running off into an obscure side tunnel? Now, once he's boarded the plane, the crews will start the engines and initiate take-off – once he's in the air, he can fight his way through the crewmen to find that the cockpit itself is sadly, _not_ graced by my presence. And our poor, tragic little captain will find himself on an empty plane with a dozen _deadly_ bombs set to detonate should he dare tamper with the controls. From there on, the choice is his. Attempt to disable to the bombs or risk blowing the entire craft to pieces by trying to reset any of the controls. Either way, he'll end up dead and I'll be happily on my way to France."

He lifted his cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply. "Of course, the Americans will have no way of telling where I disappeared to – they'll probably think I'm dead. All the better. They'll stay out of my way if they no longer consider me a threat. With Rogers eliminated, the Americans will be helpless against us. There will be no imbecilic hero attempting to _protect_ my niece. I will deal with the rest of them once he has been done away with. They will suffer hell for taking her from me. They will have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide – Erskine and his formula are long gone. Their weapons are powerless against us. I will make each and every one of them pay for the trouble they have caused me. And when the world belongs to HYDRA, when humanity bows to the new world order, I will make sure that the United States is the first nation to be wiped from the planet completely."

He looked up at the soldier before him. The young man raised his fists above his head in a swift, staunch salute.

"Hail HYDRA!"

Johann grinned. "Hail HYDRA indeed."

XXX

The Alps, Southern Germany

1943

Steve Rogers' Perspective

The wind wicked through his sweat-soaked hair, pasted to his scalp beneath his helmet. Pine trees of lush bluish greens, tall enough to reach the skies, flew past him on either side, the dirt road endless before him. He was only a few kilometers away now, so close to death's door, so close to standing face to face with the man he so vehemently despised. But… his conscience tingled at the back of his mind, the slightest feeling of remorse, of guilt, for what he was about to do. Zola's words echoed ominously in his ears; "_She is his niece."_

Did he love her? Did he care about her? Could such a monster, who killed without a thought, who savagely massacred, all for his own benefit – could someone as purely evil as Schmidt be capable of love? Was he worried about her? Was he sick with concern for his niece, suddenly kidnapped from him – did _she_ love him? Zola had said that she was unaware of Schmidt's … other half. She blamed _the Red Skull_ for HYDRA's crimes. Perhaps she felt that Schmidt was redeemable – that he truly had been brainwashed, and that he was innocent – if he killed Schmidt there and then, that poor girl, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time – she would be violently thrust into reality, forced to accept the fact that her uncle and the monster that she believed was _the Red Skull_ were one and the same. Rogers' stomach was in knots. He couldn't imagine what that sorrow would be like, how difficult it would be to bear. To think that someone you loved or cared about, someone you thought cared about you – to discover that they were the face that haunted your nightmares, that caused all this evil and death – how could one accept it?

Swallowing hard, he shook his head. He didn't know the girl – he didn't know who she was, how old she was, where she came from – for the longest time, he hadn't even known her name, but he'd been hell-bent on rescuing her. But what if she didn't want to be rescued? What if she woke up and rejected the Americans? What if Zola was lying – what if she was simply a HYDRA informant and Zola was covering her tracks? He couldn't let his emotions cloud his judgment – he had a mission to complete, a mission that would decide the fate of his countrymen. His entire life had been spent fantasizing about being a hero, about guts and glory – now was his time to prove himself. No matter what happened, no matter who the girl was, no matter what her ties to HYDRA were – Schmidt had to die. HYDRA had to be destroyed. There was no peaceful way, no easy solution, no bloodless outcome. He had made a promise to Erskine. Schmidt's man had killed Erskine, had destroyed the serum. Because of HYDRA, Erskine's dream of creating a new breed of super soldiers would never come to fruition. Because of HYDRA, Bucky, his best friend, was dead.

"_I asked for an army and all I got was you. And you are not enough._"

He had come so far – the Howling Commandos, hundreds of American soldiers – they were going to lay down their lives today for the sake of their country and for the safety of the world. He couldn't just turn around and quit because he felt guilty for some insane son of a bitch's orphaned niece. This wasn't about glory anymore – this wasn't a back alley anymore. This was war. People die. And today, the _right person_ would die. The man who deserved death more than Adolf Hitler himself – and Steven Rogers would personally ensure that he suffered for his crimes.

The first volley of soldiers came into his glimpse. He lowered his goggles. The motorcycle brigade – equipped with grenades, flame-throwers – this wouldn't be his first tango with them. They were deadly, but so was he. It was every man for himself in this game.

Like a swarm of angry bees they darted out of the forest – he zipped past them, weaving in and out, between the trees, the rev of HYDRA engines hot on his trail. Blazing blue rays shot from their mounted guns, and he could feel their sharp impact against his shield strapped to his back. He dared to glance back just slightly, eyes darting forward, back on the path – they rode with a certain grace, the elegance of dancers – it was Schmidt's cruel way of demonstrating his assumed superiority, training his men to lash out with the sophistication of silent ninjas, to bite and rip with the rabidity of frothing dogs. But Rogers had a few tricks up his sleeve – mundane ones perhaps, tried and true – but they were deadly and _very _effective. He glanced down at the remote attached to his side-mirror – he switched two of the levers with a gloved thumb, the whizzing of a long metal wire like a delightful melody on the wind. The trip-wire – an absolute classic.

The first several pursuers were smart enough to duck – the last two, unfortunately, were a little late in the game. He could've smiled as he heard their yelps as they were thrown off of their bikes. Now for his next trick – the flame-thrower. HYDRA's fiery arsenal had left so many of his men, so many of his dearest friends incinerated – now it was his turn to return the gesture. Another switch of a lever and wall of orange fire burst from the tail-end of his bike. He threw a glance over his shoulder, just in time for a HYDRA soldier's bike to spiral to the side of the road, engulfed in flames – yet another hit a tree-stump, catapulted over the front-end and sent head-first into the dirt.

As he neared the clearing, two other motorcyclists swerved in from his left, flooring the gas, some twenty feet ahead of him. He revved up his own motors, rapidly closing the distance between them. As he neared their tail ends, he reached down, the silver pull-pin of a grenade glimmering before him. He yanked up in a fluid motion, holding the pin high over his head as if in a gesture of triumph and revved forward, the explosion behind me leaving his heart pounding with a mixture of exhilaration and relief.

But it was hardly over. The concrete pillars, each outfitted with cannons, of the entrance to the HYDRA compound loomed before him, a monstrous, black steel tank ready and waiting just a few yards ahead of him. Blazes of blue light erupted form the cannons to either side of him, the tank rumbling forward like an angered beast, awoken from its slumber. He set his shield down between the handlebars, a solid click resounding as it was secured. With another push of a button on the side-mirror, a huge blaze of orange light shot from the motorcycle, blowing the tank before him to mere shrapnel in a blinding explosion. He floored the gas, flying up the concrete pillars and soaring into the air before slamming hard against the ground. HYDRA soldiers swarmed about him – with a final push of a button, he dove off of the bike, sending the vehicle careening toward the heavily reinforced steel doors of the HYDRA base. He fell hard against the side of a tank, tucking and rolling off to the ground in a crouching position. A loud boom resonated off of the metal surfaces of the base entrance as his bike exploded, a thick plume of black smoke and steady flames erupting from the site.

He jumped up, flinging his shield hard like some freakish Frisbee, slamming hard into a soldier's gut before boomeranging back to him, caught in his sure fist. He flung it again and again, back and forth, back and forth – the movements steady, almost habitual. Soldiers came at him from every angle – he deftly caught their fists with his broad shield, sending them flying into the sky and slamming down hard onto their back – the crack of their spines as the connected solidly with the hard earth. He threw his shield, bouncing it off of the steel surface of a tank, hitting a man square in the jugular, allowing him a few precious moments to punch out the soldier before him before catching the shield in mid- air –

Only to have two HYDRA flame-throwers box him in, their walls of bright fire immune to the sharp slice of his shield. As their flames slowly wicked away, an army of guards swarmed in, surrounding him from all sides.

His eyes darted about feverishly. He pounded his shield against his thigh in anger.

"Shit. Shit. Shit."

The one word that could perfectly describe his mood.

XXX

HYDRA Base

Johann Schmidt's Laboratory – The Alps

1943

Johann's Perspective

The view from the huge panoramic window was blissful at this hour – grey-blue with gusts of snow and ice, chaotic and stormy and enraged – much like his current demeanor.

"Arrogance may not be a uniquely American trait, but I must say, you do it better than anyone." He narrowed his eyes as he turned on his heel, stalking towards the cocky American captain as if a jungle cat preparing to devour its prey. As he came to stand nearly toe to toe with the boy, he eyed him levelly, examining him closely for the first time. If it were not for the acute rage he experienced whenever he even heard the name of this imbecilic fool, he would have laughed out loud. He acted like an idiot and looked the part. He belonged in a circus show – the military was no place for childish clowns. His skin was pale, pock-marked, the ghost of adolescent spots – he was a child. Not a soldier.

He stared into his eyes, a clear blue, a haughty glint to them. He wanted to gouge them out with a scalpel and stitch them up into the bastard's conceited mouth. Never the less, he smoothed his tone, ever composed. "But there are limits, to what even you can do, Captain." He kept his words measured, melodic. "Or did Erskine tell you otherwise?"

"He told me you were insane." His voice was determined, a last-gasp effort at spunk and guts – it would not take long to break him.

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Ah. He resented my genius and tried to deny me what was rightfully mine, but he gave you _everything."_ The last word stung on his tongue, like a bitter tonic – the taste of it was enough to set his blood boiling. "So, what made you so _special_?" He spat the words like poison, watching the boy's steadfast gaze falter just slightly.

The boy stifled a laugh. "Nothing." His eyes held an arrogant defiance – an emotion not alien to Johann. He had remembered wearing the same gaze in his own icy eyes as a young, inexperienced officer – it had punished him more often than it had rewarded him. This boy would be no different – he would learn. And the lesson would be a cruel, unforgiving one.

"I'm just a kid from Brooklyn."

A fiery raged seemed to ignite in Johann's core and he lashed out with his fist, catching the boy's jaw once – twice – and a third time, punching hard in the face, sending the boy to his knees, doubled over in pain. He inhaled sharply, drawing back his shoulders in rigid fury as he watched the boy cough and sputter.

Gasping, the boy lifted his head. "I could do this all day."

Johann smirked. "Oh of course you can, of course, but unfortunately I am on a tight schedule." He pulled out his pistol, the blue glow of the tesseract a beautiful sight to his cold and jaded eyes.

He tensed – several solid clicks echoed just beyond the panoramic window, and he stopped short, his gun cocked and ready to fire.

Blazing out of the dense snow were three Americans soldiers, zip lining straight for them – clever bastards – they deserved to be commended for their timeliness.

His eyes darted, throwing a cursory glance down at the young captain. "So am I," the American responded through gritted teeth. He shoved a soldier before him and without a thought, Johann shot the man, not thinking, his movements impulsive. Those bastards – they would suffer hell for wasting his precious time, distracting him from his agenda.

Within seconds, the glass before them exploded, the Americans crashing through, machine guns and pistols cocked.

Johann sprinted for the exit of the laboratory, eager to put distance between himself and that damned captain. He almost laughed, the adrenaline a welcome a burst of energy and exhilaration as he ran – no – _fled_. _Fled_ from those horrifying, terrible beasts that were the American soldiers – those imbeciles, they would not know what had hit them. It was all part of the plan – those bastards were right on time – his scheme was progressing beautifully, if not ahead of schedule.

"Bravo, Captain." He whispered to himself, the thought of watching that simpleton fly to his death so real and so tantalizing that he could almost taste the smoke of the explosion, the stench of burnt flesh. That fool –no doubt he would go down in American history as the gallant, _tragic_ hero that selflessly sacrificed his own life to save his country from that dastardly, damnable villain _the Red Skull_. Oh yes, he too would be mentioned in their textbooks – for in a few mere years, his name would be the one they feared – his gnarled, monstrous face would grace their nightmares, magnificent and pure on their poor, mundane psyches. And his dear Mina – her angelic face, frightened and lonely in a cinderblock cell somewhere in an American base – he thought of her now, as he moved fluidly, and a bright and fiery rage ignited in his core.

"_I do this for you, and no one else_."

He had made a promise to himself – to give her the perfect life, to give her all the luxuries and privileges that he had continuously been denied. Perhaps she hated him now – but he would show her the world as it was truly meant to be, and she would change.

He sprinted through the metal corridors – each twist and turn perfectly familiar to him, for he had designed every inch of his magnificent fortress.

A solid metal _gong _resounded through the tunnels – the metal walls vibrating with the sudden, hard impact of the vibranium of Rogers' shield. Johann ducked left – towards the airfield, closer and closer to the brilliant climax of his plot. Immediately past the aircraft was a small, hidden passage, initially used to vent the exhaust fumes of aircrafts taking off – closed off now and fallen into disrepair, it would serve as a discreet escape route, crafted for this singular purpose. It was guarded by a ventilation screen, easily unhinged and put back into place to disguise his location. Roughly 50 meters into the passage, a winding corridor by nature, an elevator would take him 155 meters below the surface, specifically to ground level to the east side of the mountains; coded to respond only to his touch, if the Americans were to find his location, they would have to rig an explosive to somehow break into it – a time-consuming process. Of course, fifty HYDRA guards were poised just within the passage, waiting for his entrance and securing the exit immediately after. The elevator was programmed to travel at over 96 kilometers – the journey would last only a few seconds before halting at his destination – yet another intricate tunnel that would lead him out into a smaller airfield equipped with a flat, land-based runway – and his own personal jet, virtually silent and built with a control system designed to interrupt any American radars – they would have no way of hearing, seeing, or feeling his movement once in the aircraft.

And from there, he would be safely onto France into heavily occupied Nazi territory. Not particularly ideal, for the Nazis no doubt would be quite disturbed by his sudden appearance – if they did not attempt to kill him first, which would not be wise – but no matter. A lavish chalet in Alsace had been just recently finished, and would now serve as a luxurious hideaway and planning facility – at least until the Americans were quite certain that he was either dead or not worth the wasted energy.

He smiled as _whoosh_ of HYDRA flame-throwers echoed behind him – no doubt they would keep the good captain occupied for a little while. He upped his pace, all too impatient to be out in the gusty, chill air of the airfield – close to his final destination.

The adrenaline coursed through his veins as the nearly claustrophobic corridor opened up into the cavernous maw of the airfield – his beloved bomber jet looming like a steel beast above, roaring as the engines ignited. Yes, soon Rogers would meet his death – and HYDRA's course would finally progress uninterrupted – HYDRA would stand master of the world in a few mere months. And when the world was his – he could almost laugh at the thought – he would celebrate the day that that damned _star-spangled man_ meant his death. He only wished that he could have the chance to kill him himself – but, no matter; a world without him was all too tantalizing to ignore. The sooner the American was finished – the better.

He ducked past the huge aircraft now, and is of on cue, several HYDRA soldiers ran for the ladder into the plane's cockpit – more still scurried towards it, guns thrust outward, awaiting the pursuing Americans in an elaborate, beautiful ruse.

The ventilation screen swung open, several guards peering out as he sprinted past, into the darkened hollow.

"Lock the gates and stand guard until my departure – rain fire upon those fools!" He barked amid the roar of the aircraft – he threw a glance over his shoulder, catching the beastly machine slowly churning with movement. The soldiers barked a staunch "Hail HYDRA", their voices muted by the din of the aircraft. He grinned wickedly – if only he could stay to watch. Hurriedly, he removed his glove and pressed his crimson palm to the sensor pad – the elevator doors glided open silently and he threw himself in.

Now for the journey downward – to blissful revolution. Just before the door slid closed, he barked at the guards, "Make damn sure that the American dies."

Again, the guards staunchly saluted, and the elevator doors glided gracefully to a close.

His heart pounded as the darkness of the elevator slowly began to glow with blue light arising from the sides. He turned to face the glass outer wall of the elevator, gazing down at the pitch-black, rocky crevices before him.

"Farewell, Captain America. Is it not intriguing, how the gallant hero always seems to fall into a pit of despair and failure, whilst the so-called villain remains untouched? Or, perhaps you were correct. Perhaps you are simply a mundane child from an American slum. We were not all too different – we could have been brothers in arms, but no – you chose the side of humanity. Humanity is a failing race – you'll soon learn. They will not remember your name. Not for long."

XXX

Steve Rogers barreled into the airfield – just in time to see a monstrous jet roaring to life, the wheels slowly turning as it began its take-off. He slung his shield onto his back and sprinted as fast he physically could, his muscles burning in fatigue, yet his heart pounded with a hungry adrenaline. HYDRA guards swarmed at him from left and right, but he batted them off like pesky mosquitos – he had more pressing issues to deal with, as much as he would have loved to beat the living hell out of each and every one of them. HYDRA guards were everywhere – clashing with the seemingly puny number of American troopers. Swinging himself up onto a wooden crate, he grabbed onto a metal pulley and swung forward, leaping into the air. He hit the ground running, sprinting, ever forward – but the plane was already far ahead of him, gaining speed with every second, while he seemed only to lose precious seconds as his body suffered. He upped his pace, but the effort was futile. Behind him though – the revving of an engine caught his attention.

A monstrosity of glistening chrome and metal blazed up and slammed to a halt beside him.

"Get in!" Phillips barked at him – Peggy Carter beside him. Gratefully, Rogers obliged, and the vehicle revved forward.

What felt like years passed as the vehicle gained on the plane – the broad, hulking wings of the jet scraped at the hood of the car and his heart leapt into his throat. This was it – this was it – his final chance to kill Skull. Shield strapped to his back, he leapt onto the hood – so close to the plane that he could practically reach out and touch it. "Keep it steady!"

"Wait!"

Peggy's voice echoed in the back of his mind, but she pulled him in for a quick kiss just before he could even respond. "Go get him!" Her voice was like stone. Shocked at the gesture, he turned to Phillips, who offered him an impatient scowl.

"I'm not kissin' ya." He replied flatly – as if they weren't hurtling for the end of an airstrip in a madman's car. Snapping back into action, Rogers crept forward on the hood, the bottom of the jet scraping his shield, nearly throwing him forward. Sparks flew off the metal surface – the pristine white of the alpine sky ahead of him was frighteningly close. He gritted his teeth and inched forward – forward – and with a final gasp of strength, he threw himself at the jet.

He slammed into the bottom wheel, holding tight just as it began to retract, into the bowels of the plane. And they were in the air – just him, a crew of deadly HYDRA gunmen, and the Red Skull himself – hundreds of thousands of feet above the ground.

Schmidt's car was merely a tiny, insolent dot at the very edge of the airstrip – clinging on just barely. But Phillips and Peggy were alive. And he had a mission to complete.

The wheel swung up into bowels of the aircraft, closing off the plane with a solid click. His eyes darted about, surveying for guards, and he swung himself up onto the ramp.

Looking around, he caught sight of a at least six small, queer looking aircraft – each bearing the name of a major American city, written in bright white paint.

So these were the bombs that Schmidt intended to destroy his country with. But that would only be the first wave – what sort of apocalypse was the creature dreaming up? What carnage did he hunger to unleash onto millions of innocents? He heard the metallic clang of a hatch slamming shut and he ducked out of sight – swinging himself back up onto one of the huge wheels. He waited silently as at least four HYDRA guards filed out onto the ramps, no doubt preparing to man the bombs. One got barely an inch or so past him before he swung down, kicking the man hard in the back, knocking the wind out of him. Startled by the sudden commotion, the other guards whirled around, one slipping a knife from his uniform.

The one with the knife came at him, but Steve knocked him aside, taking out the next guard with a swift kick to the chest. The other guard whirled and sprinted away, but Steve grabbed the knife from the guard behind him and lobbed it into the air, stabbing the fleeing guard in the spine. He whirled back on the other HYDRA guard just beside him, recovering from his injuries. As Steve met his punches, the other remaining guard hurried for one of the bombs, prying open the hatch of the tiny cockpit at its rear. Steve pushed his opponent aside, dashing for the control panels of the bomb. With an experimental push of a button, the bomb doors swung open, the gusty winds swallowing the bomb and dropping the guard atop it into the open air, plummeting to his death.

Steve swung around, grabbing the HYDRA guard just beside him and flung him through the bomb doors, he too falling to his death.

Three down – one to go. The last remaining HYDRA guard clambered into his designated bomb, slamming the hatch down and the bomb doors slowly opened. Steve hurled himself onto the bomb – only to have yet another HYDRA guard appear behind him, heaving his body on top of Steve, punching and jabbing at him.

His stomach leapt into his throat as the bomb plunged into the icy air – the wind sucking at his uniform, the HYDRA guard atop him wrenching him back and forth, relentlessly trying to pry him from the little craft.

Seeing the two men atop his bomb, the soldier piloting the little plane wrenched the lever from side to side, jerking the bomb and sending Steve's lower-half careening across the metal surface. The plane swooped up and down, sending Steve and the other guard sliding back towards the rotors. Grabbing onto the top wing, Steve halted just before the deadly propellers – the HYDRA guard was not so lucky.

His body was sucked into the propellers, disappearing in a fine spray of blood. Inching forward, Steve grabbed the lever that opened the cockpit hatch, reaching down before the soldier inside could react and yanking on the ejector. With a shocked yowl, the pilot flew out into the air and Steve slid inside, shutting the glass hatch above him. Regaining control of the craft, Steve soared forward, aiming for the tail-end of the hulking aircraft.

A blaze of blue light shot before him, followed by another and another still – Schmidt must have seen him on his radar, for blazes of blue shot past him, one striking the back wing and jarring the little aircraft forward. He smelled smoke and he revved the craft forward, circling back around and aiming squarely for the fuel vents.

With a crashing impact, he flew right into the aircraft's back end, grinding to a precarious halt.

He lay back in his seat, breathing heavily before sliding open the hatch and leaping out, back into the bowels of the aircraft. With a heavy sigh of fear or fatigue – or both, he spotted his shield, strapped it to his arm, and headed for the main cockpit.

Dead ahead of him was the heavy steel door.

Gingerly, he eased the heavy door back, peaking into the control room.

_Empty. _He swung open the door, shield thrust about for him.

He crept in, inching forward, eyes darting about.

No one.

Where the hell was Schmidt?

He stood in the center of the cockpit now, swiveling around frantically.

"I know you're here, Schmidt!" He yelled, almost desperately. "Come on! Are you afraid? I'm just a kid from Brooklyn, damn it! Come out and fight me! We were interrupted last time – why don't you come out and finish the game, huh?

Seconds past – minutes.

No one appeared. He darted about the cockpit, moving furiously – every inch – was empty.

Frantically, he dashed for the controls – the bombs were still loaded – the plane was operating on auto-pilot.

_He's not here_, he thought. _That bastard's not even here. What the hell is this_?

He stared at the controls – each button glowed dimly in the center. He pressed down onto the bomb-door button – maybe he could reset it.

_"Zugriff verweigert._" A robotic voice intoned in German. He could make out bits and pieces of it. _Access denied. _"_Please – correct fingerprint – or self-destruct – initiate – five minutes."_

"Son of a bitch," he moaned. He couldn't touch the bombs – they were programmed to Schmidt's fingerprint – if he touched them, he'd set off all of the bombs. He might have been in the middle of nowhere thousands of feet above sea-level – but what was the nature of the bombs? They were powered by some freak cube – how far would the radiation levels reach? The shockwaves could trigger earthquakes, volcanoes – the thoughts sounded ludicrous now but…

The bastard had completely failsafe-d the entire aircraft. No matter who or what attempted to thwart the aircraft's destination, the system itself would automatically resume control, making HYDRA's initiative impossible to defeat.

He felt hot, angry, desperate tears prick his eyes.

There was no way out. He had no choice. He either crashed the plane in the water or let the aircraft run its course – his first stop would be New York City, and the thought of millions of people dying because of a conceited madman who hadn't even shown up to his final moment was simply too much for Steve to bear.

It wasn't supposed to end like this. Not like this. He was supposed to kill Schmidt. Now, who knew where the bastard was? Bucky was dead. Erskine was dead. Who knew how many American troops had lost their lives today. All for nothing.

He wiped a gloved hand across his eyes and shook his head. Phillips would find Schmidt and destroy him. He could count on that. Dog Company – they had captured Athena – they would find that bastard and make him suffer.

_"I asked for an army and all I got was you_."

The world would move on without the star-spangled man. The war could still be won by the right people – and once Hitler was defeated, Schmidt would have nowhere to run.

Steven Rogers might die today, but Johann Schmidt would soon follow him. And as long as that bastard suffered, Captain America would happily die for his country.

"Save a spot for me in heaven, eh Bucky?" he whispered through his tears. "We'll ride all the coasters at Coney Island up in the clouds, just you and me, just us good pals."

And, with a silent prayer, Captain Steve Rogers wrenched the throttle of the plane forward and, the aircraft dropped down, down, down into the black, cold abyss below.

Several Days Later…

Johann Schmidt's Private Chalet

Alsace France – 1943

He sipped a fine Schnapps from a crystal goblet, jackboots propped up on the cherry-wood desk, lazily reclining, watching the sunset of the wooded hills. Mozart's _The Marriage of Figaro _played softly in the background.

"Herr Schmidt,"

He kept his gaze steadfast on the setting sun before him, but his heart fluttered just slightly in his chest.

"Speak." He answered coldly.

"The American has been pronounced dead."

A smile gnarled his crimson features, and for the first time in days, an unbridled joy flooded his heart.

"Excellent."


	19. A Demon's Nightmares

**I quietly present Chapter 19 of Athena today. After much scrapping of lackluster beginnings, much tired meditation over what and how to write these events, I give you the finished product. Hopefully, you will deem it successful and provide me with kind or critical feedback that will ignite my writing mojo. Because it really is mojo – it's either there, or it isn't, and as readers/writers, I think we can all tell when the writer has it or doesn't. I hope you'll enjoy it! And please… I beg your forgiveness for once again taking forever… but you know, perfection has to age for a while;) (Totally kidding, I'm not that stuck up…)**

**As always, thank you to my kind reviewers, new and veteran. Your feedback profoundly influences my writing and has provided me with touching inspiration and motivation!**

**Regards,**

**J.B.**

***Several pieces of music inspired the mood of this chapter – Shostakovich's **_**Chamber Symphony **_**and**_** Fifth Symphony**_**; Rachmaninoff's **_**Isle of the Dead**_**; and After Forever's **_**Dreamflight **_

Alsace, France

HYDRA Base

1942

"_Not necessity, not desire – no, the love of power is the demon of men. Let them have everything – health, food, a place to live, entertainment – they are and remain unhappy and low-spirited: for the demon waits and waits and will be satisfied."_

- Friederich Nietzche

The room was dark, appropriately, and the black velveteen curtains were drawn so that only the barest sliver of moonlight cast its ethereal glow upon the chamber. Shrouded in the black silken sheets like a corpse in its delicate wrappings, a fragile, pulsating being slept restlessly.

Long, slender fingers were splayed across the bed, twitching lightly, as if playing a melody across the silent air. The rigid contours of a crimson, muscled chest were enveloped in shadow, the moonlight faintly tracing the angular lines. The sleeping form was clearly exhausted – muscles bunched and tensed, strained from overwork, from listless misery.

Sleep was a priceless gift that he rarely indulged in – for so often, when he did indulge, it only served as a haunting reminder of the past he had once reveled in – and now all too often sought to bury.

_Berlin, Germany – 1936_

_Burial site of Angelica Hofstadter_

_ An oblong casket of mahogany wood – a silver-plated plaque at its center, reading: _

_ Angelica Beate Hofstadter_

_ September, 1900 – October, 1936._

_Alone in a barren cemetery, the first frost of autumn causing the dead grass to crunch beneath his boots. Long, gloved fingers stroked the fine grain of the wood, as if bidding it farewell before it was lowered into the ground for eternity, frozen in time on that blustery day. The wind was chill, but its biting edge fell impotently against his mask. Finding the carved edge of the casket, he lifted up, longing to look at the peacefully sleeping face of his sister, longing to see her once more before she was interred._

_The wind blew harder as he lifted up the casket's lid with delicate ease, the clouds above unfurling over the gray sunlight, thick and black and impenetrable._

_Before him lay not his sister's body, but the emaciated corpse of a Jewish girl – the golden star haphazardly stitched to her ragged dress was obvious – but he knew this girl. He had taken the greatest pleasure in slaughtering her family one by one. _

_Her father. A slight man of forty. _

_Her mother. Heavy with child. _

_Her brother._

_Her sister._

_Her name was Golda. She was five years old, with tawny curls and a gangly frame. He had stared into her tear-filled eyes, the saccharine smile that played upon his lips only broadening as her little body quaked and rattled as she wept._

_ "Why do you hate us?" she mumbled. "God is God. My God is your God – Rabbi told us."_

_His smile widened and he knelt down before the little girl, grasping her blood-spattered shoulders. He laughed quietly. "My dear child, your God is not my God. I have no God. Jewish, Catholic, Muslim – I care not who you worship, or how."_

_Her eyes grew large and they gleamed in the dim light of house. "Then why did you kill Mama and Papa? Why did you kill my family?"_

_ "The world is cruel, Miss Golda." He stroked her cheek with a gloved hand. "And the world was cruel to me, just as it is cruel to you. And for one to prosper, one must, in return, suffer. It is simply the way of things. But don't weep – your Yahweh promises a peaceful haven for the Israelites. Don't you think you will be happier there?"_

_ "But I don't want to die." She whimpered._

_He grinned. "Come here, dear child. Don't be frightened."_

_He beckoned her forward, with a well-practiced smile that spoke of a sweet, paternal gentleness._

_She stepped forward tentatively. _

_ "Now, I want you to close your eyes. Imagine something wonderful, and I promise everything will be alright."_

_ "You promise?"_

_He chuckled and ruffled her hair. He pressed the barrel of his pistol to her forehead._

_She flinched. "What is that?" Her voice was so impossibly small – he wanted to laugh, but he kept quiet._

_ "Shhh." He cooed. "Imagine, dear one. Just imagine how beautiful the world will be someday."_

_He pulled the trigger, and fired._

_He could feel the blood warm on his face, spattering through the chill air against his mask – the bullet's point of entry bright red and fresh against the near-rotting corpse's face._

_Staring at him with glassy eyes, the dead girl's lips parted, and she spoke – but her tinkling little voice, with its angelic, weeping innocence, did not speak. But rather – it was Mina' voice that spoke from the little girl's mouth._

_ "Everything you told me was a lie."_

_Now, Victoria's voice. "Everything you told me was a lie."_

_Angelica's voice. "What have you done?"_

_ "Why have you killed?"_

_ "Why do you kill?"_

_ "You are a monster."_

_ "You are evil."_

_ "You are selfish."_

_ "You care only about yourself."_

_ "You are a liar."_

_ "You promised me."_

_ "No children. You promised."_

_ "You lied."_

_ "You always lie."_

_ "What have you done?"_

_The little girl's eyes snapped open, glassy and black as night. "How does it feel to be a killer? Is your world as righteous as you promised it would be?"_

_ "Yes." He whispered._

_The corpse's sallow lips peeled into a smile full of blackened, rotting teeth._

_ "You are not a prophet. You are a godless wretch." The corpse reeled back and spat, "Burn in Hell."_

_ "I already have."_

_With a repulsive retching, the corpse spat fire at him – the orange flames licking at his silicon face-piece, blackened smoke trickling deeper and deeper into his eyes, into his core, darkening the scene, opening up into a desolate dreamscape of silence and death._

_Only the pitter-patter of rain broke the eerie quiet, and the swelling of a string quartet and the warm light of a decadent ballroom grew ever louder and clearer before his dulled senses._

_The Berghof, Obersalzberg - 1935_

_Before the open balcony of the Führer's luxuriant winter chalet, the cool rain of a darkened evening sky falling steadily onto the marble tiling, he held her firmly in his arms._

_A pulsating annoyance had worked its way into his veins as he examined the small, titian-haired woman below him – for he had to hunch over considerably to look into her bright emerald eyes. Slight but strong-willed, she had – disappointingly – worn a sleeved crimson gown, the glittering HYDRA pendant the only sparkle to her appearance. Her hair, too often pulled back into a messy chignon, fell loosely over her shoulders. He clucked his tongue. He had spent a small fortune on the tailored, cobalt blue satin gown that no doubt still lay in its box in the young woman's hotel suite, untouched. For nearly a month, he had lustily hungered for her pale flesh, the deeply slit seam of that gown, its plunging back, his gloved fingers splayed possessively across her exposed skin. Evidently, however, she had deemed his choice of gown too risqué, and had instead chosen a more conservative dress that covered her deliciously – alluring – assets._

_Yet, as his slender hand moved ever farther down the length of her waist – a short distance, though it was – he suddenly concluded that perhaps it was not too terrible to be forced to 'imagine' her hidden features, as his hand came to rest firmly on her hip._

_ "Johann," Her voice was curt, her eyes steadfastly gazing at the marble floor beneath them._

_He chuckled lowly, sensing the deep rage that filled her diverted eyes. Yet, he did not remove his hand, only gripping her waist more possessively, and he bent down to press a kiss onto her collarbone._

_ "Johann." She intoned more firmly, an angry snap catching at her words. He knew that tone well – her eyes were lifted defiantly, willing his own ice-blue pupils to stare into her lovely green ones._

_ "Yes, Fraulein Doktor?" He sneered playfully, leaning in for one more quick kiss, his lips brushing at her cheek._

_ "I would appreciate it if you refrained from attempting to undress me with your eyes." She answered, an expression of petulant disgust on her face as her eyes flickered to her cheek._

_ "If you had worn the gown that I so graciously took the liberty of having tailored for you, I would not need to imagine, now would I?" He retorted, although it was with a playfulness that his darling Victoria had grown accustomed to. _

_Her emerald orbs narrowed and she removed her hand from his shoulder, placing it firmly upon his gloved hand, rested on her hip, and forcefully moved it back to a more decent position at her back. "I prefer not to wear gowns that feel as though they'll fall off of me at any moment if I so much as move the wrong way. I know you're accustomed to half-naked hustlers from Paris but as a woman of more respectable status, well – I would rather a man ask for my credentials than where I purchase my lingerie."_

_She eyed him levelly, lips pursed, as if daring him to argue. He smiled at her coolly, biting the inside of his cheek in order to fight down the sting of her remarks._

_ "Touché, madam." He pulled her back into his arms, taking a moment to gaze into her beautiful eyes before bending in to kiss her once more, this time, letting his lips linger on hers, drawing out the moment, savoring the warm passion. As he straightened, he winked at her playfully. "You look lovely, Victoria."_

_She smiled somberly and shook her head. "You say the strangest things sometimes, you know." _

_He lifted an eyebrow. "My commenting on your beauty is strange? And here I'd assumed that it was a perfectly acceptable compliment in all cultures – forgive me, I am unversed in your exotic American customs."_

_His eyes sparkled with mischief, but hers were pricked with tears, her face contorted with a mixture of sorrow and betrayal. Reaching out, he cupped her face with a slender gloved hand._

_ "What is it, Victoria?"_

_At his touch, she averted her eyes and pulled away from his grip. Backing away tentatively, her eyes gleamed with tears, an unspoken grief etched into the fine lines of her face. Her lips parted, as if to speak, but instead she turned away, fleeing out onto the balcony, disappearing into the sodden courtyard of the Berghof._

_For a moment he stood aghast, uncertain of what to make of her peculiar behavior. His ice-blue eyes darted about nervously, a burning feeling of embarrassment welling in the pit of his stomach – what had caused such a queer outburst? Had he truly just been snubbed before the entire high command of the Third Reich? He shook his head, sighing._

_ Peering down at the HYDRA insignia that was pinned upon the leather lapel of his dress uniform, he muttered, "You've already been humiliated before the entire high command. What's one more petty indiscretion?" _

_Like foolish, lovesick Romeo, he bounded out onto the balcony, not bothering to cast a glance at whatever observers there might have been in the ballroom._

XXX

He stirred in his sleep, an involuntary sensation of fear working its way further into his musculature, yet sleep, cruelly, still held its unwavering grip upon his psyche. Cruelly, it waited to spring upon him with ever vivid nightmares, working their way deep into the crevices of his mind, haunting him, jarring him from his steely composure. Leaving him helpless, drowning in a sea of twisting silken sheets, alone in a room where no one would ever hear him scream or weep. Utterly alone. Alone, as he had so carefully destined himself to be forever. To be tethered to loved ones was to sentence one's self to death. Love and compassion – they were what rotted at the earth's core; they were what destroyed a perfectly crafted universe. Love and compassion had been so cruel to him – had robbed him of what he had desperately longed for as a neglected, threadbare little boy. He was a man now. And though love and compassion had long given up hope for his blackened, corroded soul – his clever conscience still taunted him with a writhing vengeance.

XXX

_The snowy Alps were shrouded in mist, the cold rain falling in fat drops against his heavy leather coat. The Berghof's courtyard was abandoned, all guests having retreated into the chalet, seeking warmth and rich light and escape from the bitter chill of the rain and the gusty winds that blew it about with force. The water fell coolly against his scalp, and rather than take shelter beneath his cap, he welcomed the pure sensation with ease. But something felt off. Something felt different and wrong. He couldn't place it, but the cool of the rain did not seep into his skin. It fell flatly, and its chill was muted. But he shrugged off the uneasiness and wandered forth, seeking his redheaded companion._

_It did not take but a few moments of weaving in and out of the manicured shrubbery for him to find Victoria, seated upon a marble bench, curled up into herself, taking shelter beneath a looming Oak. The rain had made its way through the reddening leaves of the tree's branches, blossoming in a canopy of rich autumnal hues. Her form was hunched and shivering, the rain slowly soaking into the fine fabric of her gown and dampening her vibrant curls. Her shoulders quaked in the cool air, but not in the rhythmic way that a body would shiver. It was uneven and sporadic – she was weeping._

_He sighed heavily, looking at her, and he shrugged off his coat. She looked up as he approached her and she hung her head – perhaps in shame, or simply sadness – and with a swift motion, he spread the heavy leather jacket around her quivering shoulders. _

_She sniffed and glanced up at him, her green eyes shining in the dim light, and she whispered her thanks faintly before returning her gaze to the ground._

_ "Victoria," his tone was that of a chiding parent. With slender fingers, he brushed against her cheek. As if struck, she flinched away, folding into herself. He rolled his eyes, inhaling sharply – angrily – but he willed himself to remain composed. "Victoria, what on earth has gotten into you? What is the meaning of this?" He sat down beside her. "Women usually swoon when I tell them they're beautiful. I feel as though I should be insulted – you didn't even bother to dramatically collapse into my arms. Or perhaps you were so taken by my flattery that you simply felt compelled to flee the scene."_

_ "You are not a god, Johann."_

_Her voice was soft and somber. It was almost unearthly – so quiet, the barest whisper._

_ "Pardon, my love?" His was nonchalant, but he felt somewhat unsettled by her words._

_She turned to look at him, her eyes a lush green no longer – but an icy blue, mirroring his own._

_ "You are not a god." She whispered. "But you are not a mortal either." _

_She lifted her porcelain-white hand to his face and brushed her cool fingers across his cheek – they ghosted across his neck, stopping just below his ear. She gazed at him with a look of pure sorrow – her eyes so bright and blue and terrifying and mournful – he wanted to scream but it was as if the wind had snatched his voice. _

_ "You are a monster." She whispered, a single tear trailing down her cheek as she spoke. Her fingers seemed to catch against his neck for a moment. His eyes glanced down at her hand, then back at her. She closed her eyes, the tears falling with urgency now. With a swift pull, she lifted away his skin as if it were merely paper – revealing a raw, marled face of vivid scarlet._

_He felt as if his heart had been torn out, the breath sucked from his body – the burning sensation, the flames licking at his flesh, the sting of the syringe, the nauseating scent of burning flesh – it engulfed him like a maelstrom, he didn't know what it was, how it was, how it existed. He cried out to her – to Victoria – but she simply stared at him morosely, her eyes gleaming with tears._

_ "I cannot help you."_

_Her voice was suddenly toneless. _

"_You have created a monster. You will burn and not a soul will take pity on you."_

_Bright orange, flames rose up, his vision seared with their intensity._

"_Why have you done this?" Her voice cracked mournfully._

"_You are a monster."_

_Monster._

XXX

He bolted from the bed, tangled in the silken sheets, stumbling blindly. Oxygen hurtled into his chest and his frantic breaths slammed against his ribcage. He fell against the cold floor, his body collapsing like a ragdoll.

Tears streamed down his face. He did not bother to brush them away. He let his head fall against the floor and he lay there, weeping.

He cried out for Victoria – for Wilhelmina – but of course, there was no answer, no reassuring, affectionate voice. Only mocking silence and the cackling laughter of his conscience. There would be no reprieve from this hell. For he had created it.

XXX

American Barracks

London, England – 1942

1300 Hours

"_Wake up, child."_

Her eyes snapped open. Yet there was still blackness – a cold, ethereal emptiness.

"Where am I?" she whispered.

A richly layered voice that she had come to find as a comfort – the familiar deep voice of the Norse god Odin speaking ominously in her mind. "_You are safe now, child. You have escaped the madman's grasp. Well done. Although – you did not do it alone."_

"Am I in Germany?"

"_No. You are in London now, in an isolated cell in the underground allied headquarters. You were captured by an American company and brought here some days ago. But alas, you must wake now – an American soldier has come to question you. Do not worry, child. You are safe here."_

Blinding white light flooded into her pupils – a warm yet ragged voice spoke to her urgently, persistently.

"Ma'am. Ma'am?"

But he did not speak in English. He spoke in German – perfect German, with only the slightest hint of an accent; it was American.

She blinked rapidly, clearing her sight, and she coughed, the oxygen stale in her lungs.

"Do you speak English, miss?"

She nodded weakly as her vision came into focus. A young man sat before her, in the beige uniform of an American soldier. His shirt was unbuttoned slightly, and peeking out beneath the fabric was the bright white of cotton gauze, thickly wrapped. His tone was somewhat shaky, labored – he must have been injured.

"Do you know where you are?" Speaking in his native tongue now, his voice took on a slightly different sound – a slight twang that sounded foreign to her.

Again, she nodded.

"Is your name Wilhelmina Hofstadter?"

"Yes." Her voice was raspy from disuse.

His hair was a deep bronze color, neatly combed back. His skin was a slightly lighter shade, and his eyes were a pale blue.

"My name is Robert Leigh. I'm a captain in the United States Army. You were captured by my company on the evening of April 17th from the private residence of Johann Schmidt, the executive leader of HYDRA, the former deep science division of the Third Reich."

She shook her head, clearing her throat. "_Nein_, he is not the leader." She whispered. "The Red Skull," she spat with disgust, "leads that damnable organization that my uncle worships. That bastard has brainwashed my uncle and every man under his authority."

The man – Robert Leigh – nodded at her slowly. "Excuse me; our information regarding HYDRA's finer details is often faulty. I'm sure you're quite tired, but, I have a few more questions to ask you. Can you tell me how old you are?"

"Seventeen."

"And you possess certain abilities that were imbued into your body via this 'tesseract' that HYDRA employs as its main power source?"

"Yes."

"Are you an enemy of HYDRA?"

She looked at him blankly. "If I were not, I would not have attempted to escape so many times. But I suppose you probably know all about that."

He smiled slightly. "We do."

"So where is he?"

"Pardon?"

"Where is Captain America? The man that I saved in that HYDRA factory – surely you are aware of those events. Did he organize this, my capture?"

Robert Leigh cleared his throat. "I am not authorized to divulge such information at this current time."

"Because I am a threat to you. I am not trustworthy."

The soldier cocked his head knowingly. "Not yet. But for now, you should rest. It would be wise for you to come to grips with your surroundings before we proceed with further questioning."

"Where are you from? My uncle told me that Americans were 'uncivilized creatures'. You speak with refinement."

He raised an eyebrow. "If you were taught that Americans were barbarians, then I highly doubt that you would know the difference between Montana and Massachusetts. I am from a southerly part of the nation, and that's probably the only useful information I could provide you with."

"I did not say that I supported his stance." She answered, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. She liked this soldier – he seemed so carefree and casual. He seemed human.

He resumed a serious tone. "You seem very calm for a captive. But, our reports do tell us that you've been itching to get out of Berlin for quite some time. Is that so?"

"The Red Skull effectively put me under house arrest. After I inadvertently divulged the fact that I had encountered Captain America, and spoken to him during a fight in a HYDRA factory some kilometers from the main base. Herr Skull was showing me a film reel that showcased this captain, when I realized who he was."

"Inadvertently?"

"I did not know who he was at the time of the attack on the factory. My uncle was attempting to engineer an experiment in which the tesseract would unwillingly imbue me with its full power. The Americans attacked soon after, and I was caught in the crossfire. This Captain America – he was nearly killed by a HYDRA flamethrower – I would have been as well but… I managed to put up some sort of shield against it. When the Captain saw what I had done – he wanted to rescue me but I knew that it was stupid – pointless. My uncle would find me; he's always found me and always kept me under a close eye. And besides… I had other tasks on my mind. Other things to take care of. Later, when I saw the film, I was shocked I suppose. Just… to put a face to the man that my uncle and the Red Skull so hated… it was… surreal, almost."

He nodded and cleared his throat. "Miss Hofstadter, are you fatigued, or would you not mind accompanying me to confer with my commanding officer?"

"I am not tired. Apparently, I have been comatose for some days. I am ready to wake up."

He nodded and gestured for her to rise – she looked down at the cot to see that several leather bands lay undone around her – restraints.

She followed the solider out of the cell into a darkened, narrow hallway. Two enlisted men stood at attention.

Captain Leigh nodded stoically and the two soldiers flanked her; one quickly secured her wrists in a set of iron cuffs.

"Safety precautions." Leigh explained. His expression, however, seemed quite doubtful, as if he knew that the cuffs were a pitiful defense against her if she chose to use her power.

He led them down a winding stone passage, eerily quiet and isolated. Odin had told her that she was in the allied headquarters, yet the place seemed abandoned – like a network of catacombs, macabre and dusty in the dim, crude lighting of the electric bulbs overhead.

She stared curiously at the back of the young captain's head before her, analyzing the finer details of his body in the lighting. He was quite tall and very lanky, and his hair was a deeper butterscotch color, now that she could see it in a more natural light – rather than the blinding white of the cell. He walked with a slight limp and his arms – for his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows – were riddled with cuts, some fresh and new, some old and scabbed. Several long, raised scars worked their way from his wrists up into his sleeves.

But there was something about him – something about his voice and the way he carried himself, although she was sure that she had never met this man in her life. Yet, his lanky features nagged at her psyche, that self-assured voice bright and vivid.

_Blinding blue light._

_Smoke and shrapnel._

_The roar of detonating bombs and the rattle of machine gun fire._

_Lines of black-clad soldiers flanked her. _

_A blur of blue and black – the sharp sting of a syringe._

_Rapid darkness– her body being hoisted over the shoulders of a HYDRA soldier… _

_But his voice. It was distinctly American, even as it faded into muddled silence as her body slipped from consciousness. _

_A strange twang to it, as he frantically yelled._

"Ma'am."

Her head snapped up, her eyes focusing. They had come to the end of the passageway, opening up into a slightly wider, brightly lit hallway. Hurried voices with American and English accents echoed just down the way, and the metallic ringing of telephones and the garbled white noise of radio systems beckoned.

Leigh nodded towards their left to a dented steel door, a narrow glass window carved into the brick wall just beside it. He rapped solidly on the door. A muffled, raspy voice responded curtly.

"This way, ma'am." He said quietly. He ushered her in to a small, brick walled room, a large metal furnace dominating most of the far corner. A dented metal desk was pushed up against the wall, littered with papers. A middle-aged man with steely-gray hair and ruddy features sat behind the desk, broad-shouldered and muscular, yet seemingly tired and deprived. He held a flask in one hand, emblazoned with an eagle, and a half-finished cigarette in the other, head bent, as if pouring over the stack of paperwork below him.

"Colonel Phillips," Leigh intoned beside her, "Subject Athena is ready."

_Athena?_ She raised an eyebrow. _How curious_.

The man looked up, his eyes decidedly tired and sunken. Never the less, when he spoke, his voice was quite awake – if not irritated.

"Wide awake is she, Leigh?" He cast a cursory glance at her. "Our medical staff expected you to be out for at least another forty eight hours. Or did Captain Leigh simply disobey his orders and disturb you?" His eyes moved over the young soldier.

He shifted uncomfortably beside her. "She showed signs of waking, sir. I figured there was no time to lose."

The colonel gave a measured glance at the captain before turning his steely gaze onto Mina.

"Would you mind allowing me a moment or two with our captor, Leigh?"

Obediently, the captain nodded and quickly undid her cuffs before slipping out of the small office.

"Sit down." The colonel's voice was gruff – a tinge of impatience in his tone. He gestured to the metal chair on the opposite side of the desk, facing him.

Gingerly she sat at the edge of the chair, her posture rigid.

"Your name is Wilhelmina Hofstadter, am I right?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"You are seventeen years old. You will be eighteen in approximately four months."

"Yes."

The colonel stared down at the stack of papers before him, not once looking up to face her. "You are originally from Regensburg, Germany. Your father went missing during a clandestine mission in the Sudetenland in 1926 and was pronounced dead in 1927. Your mother, the sister of Johann Schmidt, died in 1936 of cancer."

"Yes."

"You were officially adopted by Johann Schmidt, and have been in his care since 1936. Due to your premature birth, your immune system was compromised. In order to compensate for your medical complications, you were injected with a prototype of the Super Solider Serum developed by Abraham Erskine shortly after Johann Schmidt attained legal guardianship of you."

"Yes."

At last, he looked up at her, his eyes a deep brownish-green, fatigued, wizened. He placed a pair of silver-rimmed specs onto his nose before continuing to read, the papers before him apparently a stack of files on _her_. _Her_ profile, as if she were a criminal. "You came into contact with the _tesseract, _allegedly an artifact once belonging to the Norse god Odin, and were, as a result of that contact, imbued with powerful electrical currents capable of vaporizing human flesh and bone instantly. As a result, you have been HYDRA's most prized weapon."

Looking up from his papers, he removed his glasses and set them down, pausing to take a drag on his cigarette, almost burnt out.

"Do you know why you're here, Miss Hofstadter?"

She lowered her eyes. "Because I am a weapon to HYDRA. And HYDRA is your enemy."

"Captain Steven Rogers and his company attacked a HYDRA facility fifty kilometers from the main base in the Alps nearly six months ago. According to his reports Johann Schmidt and Arnim Zola were conducting some sort of experiment that would ideally result in the full transfer of the tesseract's powers into your body."

"Yes, that was their goal."

"Did Johann Schmidt make you aware of Captain Rogers' identity at any time during your duration at HYDRA?"

"No. The Red Skull, however, did show me a film reel of the Captain. He said that he was known as 'Captain America' in the United States. My uncle never mentioned him, at least not directly. HYDRA has as many enemies in the Nazi Party as they do in the United States, I am almost certain."

The colonel eyed her levelly. "You do realize that Johann Schmidt is the executive leader of HYDRA, don't you?"

She shifted in her seat, an uneasiness welling in the pit of her stomach. "He is an executive officer, but not the leader. He is merely a scientist, a senior member of the organization. He made that much clear to me, as did the Red Skull himself. The Red Skull is the creator of HYDRA, and the master of its soldiers. My uncle worships him."

"The Red Skull? You've seen him before?"

She nodded emphatically. "Yes, yes I have met him face to face."

The colonel was silent, staring blankly at the paperwork before him. He sighed heavily before meeting her eyes once again.

"Why were you so keen to escape HYDRA?"

She felt her heart skip a beat.

The colonel gazed at her, his eyes tired, but no less intense.

"They wanted me to kill people. HYDRA's definition of revolution is to spur a man-made apocalypse. They plan to wipe out the peoples they view as inferior in order to make the world a paradise for those of superior intellect. They feel as though they are doing the work of the gods, with humanity's best interest in mind. They are convinced that the carnage and evil they will ignite is for a humane cause. I viewed it as insanity. That angered my uncle and his master. I attempted to escape. They punished me. Severely." Her voice caught in her throat.

"That night in the factory, when the tesseract fully released its essence into me – it was not because of my uncle's and Zola's experiments. The tesseract spoke to me. You probably consider it a hallucination, but whatever, whoever it was – it spoke to me, and it told me that the only reason I was being given its powers and its strength was because I had been chosen, predestined, to destroy HYDRA. Whoever controls the tesseract – whoever originally controlled it – they understand HYDRA's greed and arrogance. They understand that HYDRA will stop at nothing to destroy the world. I did not tell my uncle that it had said this to me. It would have driven him mad – he would have killed me. He had me massacre an entire village – simply because they refused to vacate the land so that HYDRA could construct its newest factory. They wanted to use me, and they would do anything to use this power within me. When I refused to comply – when I tried to escape – they whipped me, beat me, stuck me with needles and injected me with drugs over and over and over again. I could not take it. I don't want to be a part of it. You probably think that I'm an informant. I wanted to escape. I wanted to be free from their grasp; I want to stop that bastard the Red Skull who is brainwashing my uncle into thinking that he is a god-sent hero doing the work of heaven. They want to destroy! They will stop at nothing to succeed – nothing."

Her eyes had filled with tears and her breathing was quick and shallow, her chest quaking with a mixture of grief and anger. "You must believe me when I say that I want nothing to do with HYDRA. I want to save my uncle. I want to save the countless lives that the Red Skull will mercilessly take in order to satisfy his own selfish desires. I remember so vividly what it was like, pinned to the wall beneath his grip, his hideous face – he makes my skin crawl, he haunts my nightmares. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't live. Please believe me, Colonel. I can see it in your eyes, you are a skeptical, you think I'm some raving lunatic. Please believe me. I want to stop HYDRA. I feel as though I've been given some mission – when the tesseract speaks to me, it tells me that I must stop HYDRA, that I have been chosen to wield this power in order to stop them. I have no interest in taking over the world or making some sort of freak god out of myself. I just want to live again, like a normal human being, without this evil and fanaticism breathing down my neck incessantly. Please."

She sat back in her chair, breathless, her shoulders quaking as she regained her breath. Colonel Phillips still eyed her with that same steely gaze – maddeningly indifferent. Like her Uncle, almost. Although, in the creases of his face and the cool gaze of his eyes, she saw no arrogance. He was not a proud man, but a loyal and trustworthy one. He did not seek fame or glory. He only served his nation. He did not hold his head as if he were a king, flashing his rank to any who dared question him. With his beige shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hair disheveled, and his eyes watery and red-rimmed, he seemed _human_.

At last, he sighed deeply. "Look. I want to believe you. But it isn't in my best interest to trust you immediately. It isn't your best interest to trust _me_ immediately, or anyone in these barracks. It will take a day or so for your information to be processed – you'll need to fill out paperwork, and you'll likely be questioned by my higher authorities before we do anything with you. Captain Leigh will bring you to your new barracks. Slightly more comfortable than the one you're in now. It will be locked and guarded 24/7 – you must not enter or leave without the guards' permission. There should be a new set of clothes and something other things already laid out for you. Get some rest."

"What do you _want_ to do with me?" she asked abruptly.

The colonel raised an eyebrow quizzically, before sitting back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. "Oh, we'll throw you in front of a HYDRA battalion and see if you fight or flee. If they shoot ya, well, it's too early in the game for us to have lost anything. If they try to capture ya, we shoot them. Someone's gonna get shot either way – it's sort of inevitable, you know – death."

She blinked slowly.

He offered her a wry smile. "No, that actually won't happen. What will happen is currently classified. But, one thing you can rest easy knowing. And when I say 'easy', I mean that relatively speaking." He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the surface of his death. "We might have brought you here alive, but that doesn't mean we'll let you stay alive if you give us reason to be suspicious of you. Know that if you try anything – if you try to contact HYDRA in anyway, if any of my men lose their lives because of you, because you turn out to be an informant of HYDRA, because you turn out to have any connection at all with HYDRA – we will not hesitate to kill you. I will personally kill you, in the name of all of the good men that I have lost to HYDRA. I don't care who you are, how young you are, how innocent you think you are, how special you think you are – I will kill you. And I will sleep easy knowing that I have killed you. Do you understand that?"

Silence.

Then, she nodded. "Yes." She said softly, firmly. "I understand."

"Good."

XXX

Alsace, France – 1942

The first orange rays of dawn poured through the leaded glass panes of the chalet, falling upon the plush carpets, the richly hued wood paneling, the intricate, ornate fineries that he had collected over the years. It lapped at every surface of the quiet room hungrily, thirstily drinking up the colors and textures that it traveled over. No music played in the room. The music of quiet silence and the steadily blowing wind beyond the windows created its own somber melody.

He sat at his desk, upright and rigid, long, gloved fingers clenched as if they were attempting to break the air that seeped between them. His mask – always composed, always flawless – seemed disheveled today, fatigued and drawn. He felt the seam tugging away from his face with every slight movement, yet he did not dare push it back into place. He could not touch it. He reeled at its alien feeling against his own skin, trapped, ensconced in a darkened pit of lies, deceit, and hatred.

"How long do you think it will be before we can occupy the main base again, _mein Herr_?"

A young HYDRA officer stood before him, bright eyed and alert, yet docile and nervous.

He did not raise his eyes from the twisting grain of the desk's wooden surface. "A month, at least." He answered quietly. His voice lacked its usual bravado – its cold harshness, its steadiness. "It would be convenient to convince the Americans that HYDRA is in a shambles after our most recent confrontation. If they think us weak, leaderless, and powerless – they will grow cocky, overconfident. They will be easier to undermine. No doubt they are investigating the place as we speak – they will find nothing of use to them. Our most important assets were removed before the attack."

"And… the young lady, _mein Herr_?"

His jaw clenched. "Find her." His voice hardened like ice. "The last location that Stephen Rogers reported to was the American barracks in London. They would first need to clear her before they could transport her to North America – they would carry out the routine safety precautions, which take at least a week to complete. I plan to dispatch a reconnaissance team to survey the city and the barracks – it is too early for us to orchestrate an attack. If we can maintain the ruse that HYDRA has fallen and that the _Red Skull_ died along with Captain Rogers, we can discreetly continue our endeavors with only minimal enemy interruptions. A surveillance operation in London would allow us to pinpoint Wilhelmina's exact location and monitor her – if the Americans make any moves against her, we attack. The longer we are under the radar, the more time we have to regroup and reconstruct. Once HYDRA's strength has returned to its full capacity, we can turn our attention to our highest priority."

He steepled his fingers.

"Destroying the Americans." The soldier's voice was quiet yet fervent.

"Indeed." He smiled. "And we _will_ destroy every one of them. And not just the Americans – the English, the French, the Russians – all of them. All of them will die. But not at once – slowly and systematically, a more refined version of Hitler's extermination camps. Our prisoners will suffer silently and passively, crumbling under our rule. Their screams will be silent, their tears muffled. Their voices will not be heard – for so long, they have drowned out the voices of the superior man, branding his genius as madness. No longer, soldier. No longer will they stand at the head of the world. Do you understand this?"

"Yes, _mein Herr. _We will not fail you."

A sad half-smile twisted at Johann's lips. "No, you will not fail me. Your loyalty, your courage, your respect – all will be rewarded in the end, when the world is ours, soldier. You will be reunited with your families, with like-minded scholars of superior intellect, of superior strength and mind. The world will be at peace and the ruling order will be in the hands of the expertly qualified. Who will your worship then, soldier? Hitler? Who will you worship?"

"You, _mein Herr_. And your successor, our queen – the wise benefactor that wields the power of the gods and strives to rejuvenate this world."

Johann chuckled quietly to himself, tracing the grain of the wood with a slender finger. "I can only hope that when your fellow soldiers return her to us, that she will be as wise and benevolent as you say. I fear that she will not be so agreeable. But the Americans will not treat her kindly – at least not yet. She will experience what it is like to truly be a prisoner – to truly be under the iron grip of a foreign power with unknown levels of strength. Perhaps this time will be a blessing for her – her bitterness will dissolve when she is overcome by fear. Perhaps when she is returned to us, she will realize who her true benefactors are – the ones that seek to protect her, rather than her harm and use her. Perhaps this will be a revelation for her. One can only hope."

He looked up at the soldier at last. "You are dismissed, soldier. I will dispatch the briefing when I have finished the revisions. Prepare your men."

The soldier clicked his heels and raised his arms above his head. "Hail HYDRA!"

Johann nodded grimly. "Indeed."

The soldier left, leaving the room silent again. The dawn was in full swing – the bright light of the risen sun shining warmly against his back.

But the morning did not offer the clean sense of calm and quiet that it usually did. It did not offer a reprieve from whatever troubling dreams had ravaged his sleep the evening before. When he gazed at the first orange rays of dawn, he thought of the fire that had eaten away his flesh – he thought of Victoria, bright red locks like the sun, skin like porcelain – creamy white. It was with a mixture of anger – deepest rage – and hollow sadness and a deep and empty nothingness that he thought of her. His feelings for her were a mystery to even him – he thought of her with contempt, angered at the thought of her spurning his proposal – running off as if she were merely a modern Cinderella, forced by the stroke of midnight to flee his arms forever. Discovering her to be an American spy had been insult to injury – the salt rubbed into his searing, wounded heart.

Yet – he saw the blood trickling from her mouth and the tears from her eyes when he had slapped her, like a lowly wretch – and he felt a mixture of disgust and anger at himself, for the animosity and suddenly barbaric nature in which he had acted. Years of neglect and uncertainty for what was to come had left him hardened and blackened. His rapid ascent from street urchin to decorated officer had left him haughty and conceited. To have a beautiful woman on his arm was merely the crowning jewel in his repertoire – the prospect of losing her – no, being snubbed by her – it made his blood boil with a viciousness that was not unfamiliar to his cold heart.

His immense familiarity with such feelings was what truly sickened him. He masked that ill feeling with a façade of selfish pride, yet his heart could not deny the way in which it made him shudder.

_You are not a god._ _You are a monster._

His heartbeat quickened, and swiftly he rose, knocking aside the chair as he swept across the room, receding deeper into his quarters. Reaching the window, he swept the heavy black curtains closed, the sunlight cut off like a ragged scream, enveloping the chamber in darkness. He closed the doors leading into the study, leaving him utterly alone with the darkness.

His breaths were quick and shallow as he crossed to the washbasin, a narrow, rectangular mirror mounted on the wall before him. He removed his gloves, revealing slender, crimson hands, and he reached into his pocket, retrieving his cigarette lighter. With a quick press of his finger against it, a flickering, orange flame sprang up from the tiny metal lighter – illuminating the mirror before him.

What he saw there before him made his heart lurch in his ribcage.

A fabricated face – a cruel likeness to the drawn, gaunt face that had once belonged to him, that had once been made of his own natural flesh.

Now, there was only silicon and synthetic material, a hideous guise of the human he had once been.

He let the flame of the lighter die, and with hurried hands, he tore the alien material from his face, clawing at the mask as if it were choking him, sapping him of life. He clutched angrily at the final piece at his neck, yanking it from his shirt collar and throwing it down before him, the strange, flesh-colored material falling into heap at the bottom of the marble washbasin. With a swift motion, he brought the lighter down upon it – the flames licking at first tentatively – then lapping furiously at the silicon at his hands, jumping and writhing as it consumed the strange material.

The smell of burning rubber and smoke engulfed his senses, and it coursed through his veins with a sort of indescribable ecstasy – a rage and elation so hopelessly intertwined. He stared at the mirror before him, illuminated by the fire, and he gazed with a strange feeling of release and calmness at the hideous face that now stared back at him.

The thin, crimson lips twisted in a horrible grin, and everything seemed to fall into place at once within him. There was no rage – no sorrow, no love, no hate, no feeling of anything at all. There was simply, indifference – a resignation to that which he was and was destined to be.

Yes. He was a monster. A foul beast.

No longer would he wallow in his gloomy depression, drowning in a sea of nightmares, an endless abyss of dreams. No more would he dwell on his failures or find solace in his loneliness, his emptiness.

No longer would he hide behind a mask – no longer would he hide behind a prideful façade of bitterness and hate.

He was a monster. He would embrace the ghastly, bloodthirsty, barbaric nature of what he had inadvertently created out of himself, those years ago – alone, engulfed in flames.

The weak, spineless sap that had once inhabited his frail, fragile body – it no longer existed. The beast, the brute of strength and evil that replaced it – would live on and flourish.

_You are not a god. But you are not a mortal either._

His lungs filled with the thickening smoke and breathed it in as if it were the purest air – fueling his strength.

"I wonder where you are now, little Golda." He whispered, smiling savagely. "Do you wish so fervently for life now, when you know that I survive?"

XXX

American Barracks – London, England

1942

0500 Hours

It had been at least forty-eight hours since she had awoken in that bright white chamber. She had been given a new room – a cramped, bricked alcove with a small cot and a washbasin. A pair of army-issue beige trousers and a button down blouse had been laid across the bed for her on the first night, a small pair of battered leather shoes placed at the foot of the metal bedframe. She dressed now by the sputtering light of a dusty bulb wired into the concrete ceiling, securing the final buttons of her blouse before tucking it into the trousers. There was no mirror in the room; she pulled her tawny curls into a small, undoubtedly slipshod bun at the nape of her neck with a rubber band that she had managed to scrounge from one of the soldiers that guarded her. She sat down tiredly at the foot of the bed and pulled on the shoes, lacing them up slowly, biding her time. Apparently she was to be introduced to some higher authority – Colonel Phillips's boss, as Captain Leigh had referred to him.

The young captain with the strange accent had been in and out of the small cell, usually to deliver a fresh batch of paperwork, and sometimes her meals. He provided quick snatches of conversation – a valuable source of human contact. She had come to dread isolation, after so many months of it in Berlin – the jovial captain put her tensed nerves at ease. Still – he was always at an arm's length, never divulging any information to her, even if it was simply mundane. Of course, she knew better than to be surprised by such treatment. She was the enemy, at least until proven otherwise. It was _how_ that would be proven otherwise that caused her some concern.

Of course, she had not necessarily chosen to be transported across Europe and the English Channel to reach this place. Although, it had proven convenient. The Americans had gotten her farther away from HYDRA than she ever could have hoped to get had she followed through with her own hopeless plan of escape.

She stared down at her shoes, tracing out the scuff marks with aimless eyes. She knew that she should be frightened – frightened by the uncertainty of her predicament, frightened and worried and hysterical. Yet, she was not. She did not care what happened to her anymore. Prisoner or ally, friend or foe, it no longer mattered where she stood on the American front, or where she stood on the HYDRA front for that matter. She would rather die than be forced to passively serve a self-proclaimed ruling order – HYDRA held no emotional connection her.

But Johann, however, did. It angered her as much as it troubled her – the question of whether or not he was worth saving, if he could be saved at all.

The Americans were convinced that Johann and '_the Red Skull_' were one in the same. A small part of her refused to accept that idea, but yet, her conscience would not banish the idea from her brain. What if he was no better than the Red Skull? Surely he was a separate entity from that creature – she had looked upon the gnarled crimson flesh of Johann's revered master with her own eyes. Yet… his lilting yet horribly indifferent tone, his ice-like eyes, his elegance and dignity – it was all too frighteningly similar to the way in which her uncle carried himself. What if Johann _was_ the monster that Colonel Phillips and Captain Leigh referred to? If Johann were merely some senior officer, the likelihood of them even knowing who he was, was slim. But – Goering and Himmler and Rommel were senior officers. They were not Hitler, yet every allied soldier knew their names, no doubt.

Her stomach was in knots. She lay down on the cot, sighing heavily. There was no point in thinking of it now. She could not do anything about it.

A rap at the door sounded and she sat bolt upright, shoulders rigidly set.

The young captain appeared in the doorway. "Up and at 'em, _Fraulein_. We've got business to be taken care of."

"Will you tell me what business? Or is it classified?" she asked wearily.

"Oh, you're scheduled to meet with a few higher ups that I don't even know the names of. So, even if it were confidential, I don't have much to tell anyhow."

"Do they want a demonstration?" her tone had a bitter note to it.

The captain shrugged his shoulders. "Doesn't everyone? There's always a need for a demonstration, regardless of who you are. People don't believe things until they see them."

She stood up, silent.

"It will be a short ride to the location – that's confidential, if you'd like to know. Several of our higher ups and a few Brits will be present. You'll be asked to demonstrate your power and asked several questions. Most likely routine things – you won't need any briefing for it. You will be transported in an armed vehicle – alone. You'll be heavily guarded of course; myself and Colonel Phillips will be in a separate vehicle."

"In case I decide to suddenly go mad and destroy myself and whoever's nearest to me?"

He offered an indifferent expression. "No need to be a cynic, madam. All but my ass has been burned and blistered to a pulp in the name of 'rescuing' you. And I'll have you know the condition of my ass is quite important to me. I'd rather be safely away from the fire hazard you present rather than have my finer assets barbequed as well."

She stifled her laughter. "Then I shall do as told."

He gestured for her to rise with a flourish of his arm. "After you, milady. Your coach awaits."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I am so _terribly excited_ for the ball." She retorted dryly.

XXX

The darkened sky of London greeted her morosely, the dawn seemingly having no inclination of delivering a rosy sun this day. Yet, to step out into cool, fresh air was refreshing in itself. Her wrists chafed against her cuffs and her arms ached with a familiar tension, having so often been thrust behind her back. Her time in the open air was to be short; she was prodded – none too delicately – into the back of a heavily armed military vehicle, and shut into the black and leather interior. Alone, isolated. She was closed off to the driver – the partition separating the driver's cabin from the rear of the vehicle had been sealed closed with a thick layer of steel and the windows looking out into the city had been blacked out and barred. A moving cage. Quite the pleasant thought.

Her wrists bound behind her back, she sat uncomfortably, her spine protesting as she refused to let it lean its weight against her already aching arms. The hum of the motor and the shift of gears rumbled beneath the vehicle as it rattled to life, slowly starting forward.

It was perhaps a forty-five minute drive – she had no sense of time to go by, no watch, no view into the morning light. Alone in a terribly dark vehicle – it could have been the middle of the night.

The location truly was confidential, if they did not want her to view their route. And, they did not want anyone to see within, to see her, alone in that car. A prison sentence, but also a blessing of safety – she was a captive, but she was at least being granted some semblance of protection. Still, she longed to hear the familiar voice of Captain Leigh. His strange accent, his sense of humor – terribly inappropriate at times, rough around the edges, and harshly honest – the carefree air of self-assurance about him was a comfort. Even Colonel Phillips' raw, human voice eased her nerves, even if he had made it plain that he would not hesitate to kill her if it was deemed necessary.

Johann would have despised both of them – tactless, uncouth, utterly American.

Somehow, it made it easier to like them – to trust them. And even though Colonel Phillips had advised against her trusting him or any other American solider – somewhere deep within, she felt assured that she _could _trust these men. Perhaps it was foolhardiness – innocence. But for the time being, it offered her an outlet of solace.

The car halted and the engine rattled to a dull silence. A soldier opened the door and gestured silently for her to exit the vehicle.

Out of the car, she was flanked by two beige-clad American soldiers, rifles slung across their backs, bare hands grasping her shoulders firmly. Her eyes darted about, taking in the new setting.

They were somewhere in the outskirts of the city, a shady, quiet lane lined with large poplar trees. Ahead of them lay a small, creamy white stone cottage, tendrils of dark smoke snaking out from a short chimney.

Colonel Phillips, now in view, gestured to the soldiers to release her from her grip and sternly commanded that she come forward.

"This is where I am to meet with your authorities, Colonel?" She couldn't help but be skeptical.

Captain Leigh came to stand beside her. "Tea party." He smiled boyishly.

"Shut up, Leigh." Phillips' tone was like iron. He started forward to the cottage.

"Yessir."

Mina cast a sideways glance at the captain. "How is your ass, Captain?" she asked as Phillips disappeared into the small building.

His lip quivered, as if to smile, but he bit at it, forcing his face to remain indifferent. "Would you like to see it and find out for yourself?" His tone was perfectly serious.

She returned her gaze to the cottage. "Do you take me for that sort of girl?"

"Not in the very least, milady. Although I did happen to hear that you German girls were quite – how to put this delicately – loose." He grinned.

"Don't always believe what the propagandists tell you, Captain. Although, I'm almost certain that Goebbels has fraternized with the women of nearly every nation in Europe. Magda was justified in being… 'loose' with her assets."

"I didn't think the general public knew about all that dirt."

"I think my uncle got himself fired from the Gestapo simply to escape the dirt."

"Smart of him."

Mina glanced around her, turning about to look at the convoy of vehicles behind them. "What exactly is the Colonel doing, if I may ask?"

"Like I said. Tea party."

"So he's having tea and crumpets with Churchill in the garden, I see."

Leigh winked at her mischievously before leaning closer, as if to divulge a secret. "Now, you have to keep this hush-hush but – you see, we're actually _so good_ that Churchill has to get an audience with _us_. Of course, we picked a location that would keep our high profiles on the down low – we have to watch out for those _propagandists_ shoving their noses in our business. We like to keep things quiet. So here we are out in the London suburbs for 'a spot of tea' with the old chap." Here he feigned an English accent that was so ridiculous she could hardly force her lips to remain skeptically pursed.

She shook her head and looked behind, in part to hide her laughter.

But what she saw poised merely fifty yards away made her heart skip a beat.

A tall, blond-haired officer leaned against one of the convoy trucks, dressed in an American beige uniform. But she knew this man – she had seen him before. She immediately recognized the catty smirk on his lips.

The officer that had taunted her in a cold HYDRA cell, threatening her with the execution of her uncle and her eternal imprisonment. His words rang hauntingly in her mind.

"_It would be useless for you to refuse as, either way, you will support us. Whether or not you choose for your uncle to die is of no consequence to Herr Skull. Herr Schmidt is merely a scientist – he can be easily replaced. You, on the other hand, are not quite so dispensable."_

But surely it was not him. It couldn't possibly be him. Why would he be here, and seemingly alone?

Or had HYDRA already found her? Had they really found her, so quickly?

She felt bile rising in her throat, her vision wavering as dizziness overcame her.

"Captain Leigh," she whispered, returning her gaze to the cottage, staring steadfastly before her, not daring to look back.

Leigh glanced over at her, his eyes narrowed as if he had detected her nervous tone. His eyes flickered to where she'd been looking. "What's up?"

"Do you see that soldier, leaning against the truck? Blond hair, six foot tall, thereabouts."

Moving his head just slightly, he cast a glance over his shoulder. A few moments silence, until he affirmed it. "Yeah I see him."

"Have you seen him before? Are you familiar with him?"

Leigh was silent again. He too returned his gaze to the cottage before them. "How do you know him?" his tone was calm, indifferent – he had not seen him before, that much was clear by his question.

"He is a HYDRA officer. I have met him before."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I would recognize that bastard anywhere. He threatened to kill my uncle – he threatened to make a slave out of me."

"Alright. Don't look back. Don't turn around, stay still. Look straight ahead of you. We'll wait until Colonel comes back out. If I go in, he might have gotten the hint and make a break for it. Just wait."

Ten minutes passed. They stood in silence, waiting as Colonel Phillips exited the cottage, flanked by an English officer.

"Sir," Leigh's voice still held its unwavering calm, but his tone sounded slightly off. "Sir we've got a security issue."

Phillips was a foot from the Captain and he perked up at the words. "What issue, Leigh?"

"Suspected HYDRA officer bout fifty yards back from us standing by the fifth truck. Blond hair, six foot tall. She recognizes him."

The English officer behind Phillips turned white as a sheet, but said nothing.

Phillips' eyes grew steely and cold. "You have got to be shitting me." He looked around, then back at Mina.

"When did you see him?"

"I had just glanced over my shoulder not but ten minutes ago, sir. I recognize him from the main base in the Alps. The Red Skull had ordered him to interrogate me."

Phillips was rigid. "Son of a bitch I thought I was done with HYDRA. You're sure this guy's one of their goons?"

Mina nodded stoically, but her heart pounded in her chest.

"He's not alone. This is either an ambush attack or a surveillance mission. Whatever it is, we're attacking first." Phillips looked to Leigh, then to the English officer. "Get subject Athena inside, Captain Leigh. Quickly."

Leigh nodded and grabbed Mina by the shoulders, propelling her inside the cottage. The English officer was at their heels. Mina could just make out Phillips' mumbled order to a soldier along the perimeter.

He was ordering a sniper to kill the HYDRA guard, if nothing more than to lure out his allies, if there were any hiding within the ranks.

A few moments of silence, and the Colonel made his way into the cottage, shutting and bolting the door.

As the door gave a solid click, a single shot was fired – and following it, the rattle of submachine guns.

And the hollow screams of men – their voices being torn out of their bodies, followed it.

HYDRA guns – she knew their sound, and the dying screams of the man whose lives they had claimed.

The Red Skull had found her.


End file.
